


who put the glad in gladiator?

by TroglodyteMonologue



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Hercules (1997) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Betrayal, But not Greek, Galra Keith (Voltron), Hades Sendak, Hercules Shiro, Humor, M/M, Phil&Meg Keith, Romance, Slow Burn, Sparring as Flirting, The Muses are the Blades, You heard me, Zeus Allura
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroglodyteMonologue/pseuds/TroglodyteMonologue
Summary: “His name is Yorak,” the glowing statue says. With a name like that, Shiro imagines a towering, mean looking man with tattoos and a mace.“He is the former trainer of many champions in the Galran Coliseum — the best there is. He lives on an island in the Dalterion Sea. Something of a hermit these days.” Alright, a towering Galran with tattoos, a mace, and a sour attitude. Later, he would find only one aspect of his mental image to be correct. “Under his tutelage you will undoubtedly prove yourself a true hero. Then, you can reclaim your place with us on Mount Voltron. You can come home, my dear Shiro.”AU inspired by Hercules where ‘Greece’ is occupied by aliens and humans alike, the Paladins are gods and goddesses, and Keith is forced out of retirement by some handsome musclehead who claims to be burdened with a quest to become a god.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 78





	1. Go The Distance

Shiro’s pit stop for fruit is, quite frankly, a catastrophe. 

“Excuse me! Sorry! Coming through!” Shiro yells as he dashes through the opposing rush of bodies. They part for him not because he asks, but because he is a six foot tall teenager with broad shoulders that runs with the force of a bull.

All Shiro wanted was some fruit. But then he had to go and knock a whole wall over. He didn’t mean it, of course not; but it was either the wall or tripping over a small Arusian woman. Shiro chose the former. Unfortunately, his choice shouldered an entire pillar from its base.

The stone columns of the round courtyard topple over one another like dominoes, sending up a cloud of dust with each loud and painful crash. People run from the marketplace stalls, shrieking and clutching their goods or their children close. Vendors abandon their wares and some booths are unlucky enough to be crushed by the heavy stone blocks. 

Shiro can only scramble to fix it. He sprints the inner perimeter in wide leaps, chasing the path of destruction from which others flee. Despite his determination, the youthful panic on his face does not instill any confidence in bystanders. _One, two, three, four, five_ columns down before Shiro is close to the destruction point. He quickly slips between a tipping column and the next; a dangerous place to be. Shiro plants a foot behind him, holds his breath, and stretches out his arms. Gasps and screams fill the courtyard in anticipation of watching some poor, reckless young human get crushed for his folly. 

The two ton column stops. It still tilts, mid fall, but is rendered immobile at Shiro’s hands. 

The muscles in his arms tense and shift but the feat is, admittedly, effortless for him. His sandals press deep indents into the ground from the pressure, but there is no sweat on his brow. Pebbles and dust shower down from above and he coughs, shaking the debris off with a toss of his head. The column shifts with the movement and he reigns in his concentration in a panic.

Shiro has a problem to fix. Stopping the column was one thing. Now he has to figure out what to do with the thirty foot battering ram in his arms.

He looks to and fro, over his shoulder both ways, considering the best course of action. People have huddled on the far side of the yard as stunned observers. They look on with wide eyes and Shiro can hear the sounds of awe that ripple over the crowd over the crumble of stone. This isn’t a sight they see everyday. But Shiro doesn’t ever let it go to his head. Because, inevitably, his gift turns on him.

Shiro decides the best course of action is to toss the column in his arms safely aside, catch the next previously fallen column, and work his way down the line. Easier said than done. He widens his stance, steadies his body, and lifts. The column rips right out of the ground without hesitation. Shiro thinks he hears someone curse aloud. An optimistic thought passes through his mind: maybe his plan will work after all.

Unfortunately, just as he is about to twist and throw it away from the crowd, a particularly large chunk of marble falls down and conks him on the head with a resounding _THUMP!_

Stars, what he wouldn’t do for a normal day.

Shiro lurches the opposite way, loses his grip, and the column goes flying — right toward the herd of bystanders. 

He looks up just in time to watch the column take to the air in slow motion. The height it gets is astounding, blocking out the sun like some bizarre solar eclipse. People’s expressions twist into terror and a collective, guttural scream erupts as they scatter away from the incoming hazard. 

“Watch out!” Shiro cries. The next column in the line up nearly crushes him while he is distracted. It clips his leg but, ultimately, he dodges in time. He rolls into the dirt shoulder first and feels like he twists something wrong. The column falls, knocks its neighbor, and the destruction has momentum again. 

With his head spinning and shoulder aching, Shiro stumbles to his feet and looks up — the situation is worse than before. The upside is that everyone seems to have escaped being crushed by the flying column. The downside is the flying column has hit the other end of the courtyard and has created another chain reaction. By the time he can even fathom the calamity that surrounds him, everything topples down from both ends. Shiro is powerless to stop it. He’s strong, but he can’t be in two places at once. 

He cringes as the last two columns fall over one another, leaving the entire courtyard in shambles. Stalls damaged beyond repair, produce strewn about, artisan goods crushed, an entire architectural structure raised to the ground — and Shiro standing in the middle of it. He feels nauseous.

Then comes the inescapable:

“What is _wrong_ with you?” someone yells. They close in on him from all sides — merchants and patrons alike — and Shiro puts up his hands in defense. The remorse and pain in his expression doesn’t deter their anger.

A woman pulls her little girl close. As if he would hurt the child too. “Were you trying to kill us?” she demands.

“No! Of course not, it was a mistake!” Shiro insists. “I didn’t mean to — “

An Unilu trader brandishes a cleaver at Shiro and he takes a step back. “Make me lose a whole week’s wages?” she sneers.

The angry mob closes in around him and Shiro, gentle soul that he is, only keeps apologizing. They wave broken melons in his face, scream demands, and threaten to call authorities.

This plays out over and over again. It is part of the inevitable cycle that is Shiro’s life. He is always well intentioned, but his extraordinary strength almost always turns around on him. The harder he tries, the worse the outcome. No good deed goes unpunished, he supposes. Year after year, Shiro grows stronger and stronger and, try as he might, he doesn’t know how to control it. Neither did his parents. Now they are gone and Shiro is left to fend for himself. He can’t even buy an apple without leveling a town.

“He’s too _dangerous_ to be around _normal_ people!” someone screams. Shiro has heard that before too.

“I don’t wanna see your face around here again!” the Unilu cries. The crowd mumbles in agreement; they allow the Unilu the final word as their collective wish. Shiro chances a look around the circle and meets not a single set of kind eyes. 

He gently elbows his way through the crowd — the last thing he needs to do is lose his cool and send some poor people flying like the column. With a ducked head and an empty stomach, he makes for the open road. Shiro holds himself tall, like he always does. He hears his father in the recesses of his mind, _Don’t let them get to you, Shiro. Always be the bigger person_. Shiro picks up the travel sack he dropped at the courtyard entrance and drapes the shawl his mother gave him around his neck. 

One of the bystanders throws something at his back and it splatters against his tunic. He doesn’t even flinch. His patient demeanor holds strong. But he does double his pace. 

When he was younger, the treatment bothered him more. Now, he understands why they do it. They are scared of him; of what they don’t understand.

It still stings.

He takes to the wide, dirt road and heads up a hill to the left. The pathway slopes and curves with the hilly countryside. It is green and beautiful, dotted with scattered olive groves, cypress trees, and the occasional farm or cottage. 

The sight brings him no joy. He is tired. Defeated. Shiro thinks maybe he should just give up his journey altogether. Like he would find any answers at the Temple of the Gods. He should just pull himself up by his sandal straps and deal with his lot in life. Maybe he could find a way to use his strength in the Voltron Games. Even worse, the Galran Coliseum. It might pay well, at least.

When Shiro can no longer hear the jeers and chatter of the mob, he turns and looks down at the mess he created. The rubble of the town center lays in a depressing, flattened circle and the crowd has dispersed to assess the damage. A whole agora destroyed in a matter of minutes. He sighs, too heavy and tired for such a young man. He takes a moment to brush the stone dust from his hair and rub the back of his sore head. He doesn’t feel a crack, but it still throbs something fierce.

“That was impressive,” says a youthful voice.

Shiro turns, ready to confront another angry resident, and is taken by surprise when he comes face to face with two children: a Galran and a Balmeran. They sit together, in a gnarled oak tree off the side of the road. Their little legs dangle off the side of a wide branch and their hands and pockets appear to be full of apricots. They are an odd, but sweet pair.

He is not in the right frame of mind to entertain children, but he can’t possibly ignore them. He sighs and asks, “What was?”

“You are very strong,” says the Balmeran girl, with a voice that is light and sweet. She swings her legs back and forth. “You tried to help.” Shiro’s expression softens. _Tried._

The Galran boy with large, pointed ears and white hair shakes his head at his friend. “Not that. You leveled the market with one stroke. You’re powerful.” His stance on the matter is very...Galran. The boy is strangely excited when he leans forward and asks, “What is the heaviest thing you ever lifted?” It’s more like a challenge than a question.

Shiro stifles a chuckle because he thinks the Galran boy would take it as an insult. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t answer; he could cut their meeting short and be on his way. But then he thinks: what harm could it do? They are just kids. 

He thinks for a moment. Then says, “A battle cruiser.” He didn’t lift it persay, more like pushed it out to sea — one of the few instances he did not destroy someone’s property.

His answer delights the children. Their eyes go wide as saucers and they make varying sounds of wonder and admiration. Shiro smiles and watches them confer to one another about the heaviest things they have ever lifted. Like a vase full of water or a parent’s broadsword or an entire basket of potatoes. The Galran boy insists he is stronger. The Balmeran girl concedes. Shiro has a feeling she is actually stronger and that she knows it.

The boy’s curious, yellow eyes turn back to Shiro. “How did you get so strong? Who did you train under?” the boy demands. He’s got spunk.

“I was born this way. I’ve never trained with anyone,” Shiro explains softly. He omits the part where he was found abandoned on a mountainside as an infant. How his loving parents took him in and raised him on a farm miles and miles away. How he felt cursed by the burden of his gift.

Shiro always assumed that was why he was discarded — because he was cursed.

But the children don’t need to know that.

“Impossible,” spits the boy. 

“Most wonderful,” chimes the girl. 

Shiro’s eyes brighten. He is charmed by the complementary pair. They have their own strange little agendas, but speaking with them lifts his spirits. Shiro decides he hasn’t given up on innocence and kindness in the world. Not by a long shot.

“Something on your back,” says the Balmeran girl. 

“Oh, uh,” Shiro stumbles and attempts a look over his shoulder. Children, more than most, understand the concept of bullying. But he doesn’t feel up to an explanation.

The young Balmeran’s earrings jangle together as she jumps down from the tree. She walks right up to him, no hesitation, and carefully brushes away the remnants of bad produce from his clothes with her large claws. She steps back and smiles, “Much improved.”

“Here,” says the Galran boy. Shiro turns just in time to catch three perfectly ripe apricots.

The gesture takes him by surprise for, as far as he knows, the Galra are not known for their generosity. Or general kindness. But, then again, humans are not well known for their strength. Shiro smiles through his surprise. “Thank you very much.”

The boy just shrugs and turns his nose like it means nothing, but his pointed ears shyly flatten close to his head.

Shiro places the apricots in his satchel just as the Balmeran girl confesses, “They are stolen.” She smiles proudly, but sweetly, and Shiro just blinks back at her. They are, undoubtedly, a _very_ odd set of children.

“You’re not supposed to tell him that,” hisses the boy.

Shiro picks up the young Balmeran, light as a feather, and easily sets her back into the tree beside her friend. “It’s okay,” Shiro says, “I won’t tell. But maybe ask next time. They might taste sweeter if you’ve earned them.”

The duo looks sheepish, and the lesson may have gone over their heads but it was worth a try. Shiro looks at them for a moment, letting them stew in the wisdom, before reaching over and shaking the big branch they sit on. Meaning, he barely jiggles it and the whole tree trembles. The children cling to the tree and laugh, like it’s some sort of ride or a new game the strongman has just taught them. 

The heavy cloud above Shiro’s head dissipates. When he pulls his hand back and hikes the satchel higher up his shoulder, the children are in a fit of giggles.

“Keep out of trouble now,” he says and turns to the road with a warm heart.

“Healthy travels!” chirps one. 

“Vrepit sa,” says the other.

Shiro knows he is close to his destination from the silhouette of mountains in the near distance. The big range of ashy hills and valleys is imposing and dark but Shiro has never been one to scare easily. If he keeps his pace, he knows he can make it by sundown. 

Beyond his destination stands Mount Voltron. A sharp, singular peak reaching far above the bright clouds and into the heavens. He has only ever used it as a point of reference when travelling because its greatness can be seen for miles and miles. They say the summit, paved with gold and ancient magic, is the home of the gods. Perhaps. Shiro has always been a man of science, so he remains skeptical.

That being said, the Temple of the Gods is his aim. It is the last place he thinks he can find some answers. Maybe. Shiro doesn’t know why, but he feels drawn there. Just as his eyes are always drawn to Mount Voltron; ever present, the compass with which he guides his way.

The countryside road is easy. The trek up the mountainside is hard. It rains off and on in what appears to be a timed pattern. Shiro wonders if it is a scientific anomaly. Or maybe it is magic. He has no scientific explanation for his strength so he is willing to entertain any hypothesis. The path is steep, rocky, and rarely travelled. Shiro’s sandaled feet slip out from under him repeatedly and the ash permanently stains the knees of his pants. The sun sets long before he sees the temple.

When he does, it takes his breath away. 

The structure is a colossal pyramid of ivory stone, stark and bright against the dark mountain ash. The designs cut into the stone look Altean. Some curves and lines even appear to glow. The base of the pyramid is the only place where anything green and lush grows — juniberries coat the ground in a striking blanket of bright purple. Shallow steps lead the way to a tall, open entrance that is flanked by two imposing lion statues. At least, they might be lions. The temple looks particularly warm and inviting after a long journey.

As he draws nearer, footfalls sluggish from exhaustion, Shiro spots a figure at the temple’s entrance. A red haired man in Altean ceremonial robes sits crouched at the base of one of the two lion statues. He reaches for something in the crevice between the pedestal and the statue. 

“Oh quiznak,” the man curses in his struggle.

“Need a hand?” Shiro asks, lingering at the foot of the stairs. The Altean startles, glances at Shiro, and his struggle increases four fold, like he has been caught in an indecent situation. 

“Oh no, no, don’t be silly! Just have to twist this way and give it a good yank that way and maybe give it a shove that way and I think if I just — “ the man rambles. He braces his feet against the statue’s base and pulls back hard. The undertaking is almost comical. 

Shiro realizes the Altean is not reaching — his arm is _stuck_ under the lion statue.

After a long bout, the Altean pauses his struggle and catches his breath. Apparently, this has been going on for some time. The man tries one more strong pull before giving up and greeting Shiro with a smile. 

“Hello, pilgrim! My name is Coran and I am the guardian of this temple! What brings you here today, young one?” It feels scripted. Apparently, Coran realizes he is not going _anywhere_. So this is how introductions are going to happen. Shiro approaches and notices Coran has quite a mustache. And a very genial, approachable demeanor. Shiro likes him from the get go despite his inherent silliness.

“Uh, hello Coran, my name is Shiro. I’ve come a long way to seek council and — are you sure you don’t need any help?” Shiro asks, genuine alarm in his expression. Coran has continued to try and remove his arm without Shiro noticing but the Altean’s face is beet red from exhaustion. So Shiro can tell.

Coran officially gives up the fight and sighs, “Well, I suppose you’ve caught me in a bit of a conundrum. I dropped something down here, reached in to get it, and now I’m in a pickle. That’s how you humans say that, yes? A pickle?”

Shiro nods. His confusion overshadows his weariness.

“Yes, quite the pickle I’m afraid! Perhaps you could find something to pry this statue up just a bit. Or if you happen to have any olive oil in that bag perhaps — If only I had a case of the slipperies right now. I wonder if I can _trigger_ slipperies,” Coran says. Shiro doesn’t know what that means and he decides not to ask.

Shiro shuffles awkwardly. He knows what he _can_ do. But after the market fiasco, he is terrified to offer. Shiro imagines the worst possible scenarios: crushing Coran’s arm under the statue’s weight or throwing the lion into the pyramid because a fly gets in his eyes. It is always a gamble. But when someone needs his help, Shiro’s palms itch and his body becomes restless. He can’t help but answer the call; like it is programmed in his bones. He climbs the next couple of steps and grips the lip of the lion statue with one hand.

“Oh, you won’t be able to lift it. It’s very — _SWEET MOTHER ALTEA!_ ” Coran’s eyes pop out of his head.

Shiro lifts the statue with one hand, no hesitation. It weighs like nothing in comparison to a stone column. He holds it over his head and Coran is stunned to the spot, arm still outstretched over the lion statue’s base.

“You might want to — “ Shiro starts, nodding his chin.

“Oh! Right! Right!” Coran says and pulls his arm to his torso.

As gently as handling a butterfly’s wing, Shiro puts the statue back on its base. It takes a long time to do so and Shiro’s face is purple with focus by the time it finally touches down. The lion drops the rest of the gap when Shiro slips his fingers out, but the angle isn’t right. 

The right paw snaps clean off. The stone piece tumbles down the temple steps with a sickening clatter. 

Shiro is mortified.

“Oh my,” he hears Coran say.

Shiro rushes down the steps and quickly retrieves the piece. A little section crumbles off. Not good. Very not good. Shiro guiltily offers the head sized paw to the Altean man. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says. For the millionth time that day. 

Coran takes it, lurching forward with the sudden weight, and looks it over. He expects Coran to scream at him; to turn him away because he has disrespected the gods and destroyed an ancient religious artifact. Instead, the man is calm. He frowns in deep reflection, shrugs, and tries to shove the piece back into place. The paw sticks for a moment — before rolling off the pedestal again. Shiro’s stomach drops. 

Coran waves a hand. “Not to worry, I’ll deal with it later!” he announces, with honest ease.

Shiro is bewildered. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course, my friend! Allura above, I once knocked off a _head_ and lived to tell the tale!” Coran laughs like his joke is the funniest in the world. Shiro is so rattled but he manages a nervous chuckle in return as Coran knocks Shiro with the back of his hand. Unfortunately, hitting Shiro anywhere on his body feels like hitting solid diamond. Coran winces and not so covertly shakes out the pain behind his back. 

Shiro is out of his depth. He can’t understand why Coran takes his mistake so gracefully, but the tension eases away from Shiro’s shoulders all the same. He can’t remember the last time someone said one of his mistakes was okay. Maybe his parents. 

“You have quite a gift, Shiro,” Coran says, casually inspecting the knuckles of his soon to be bruised hand, “I’ve seen many things in my time, but I haven’t seen anything quite like that before.” 

It’s what everyone says. Until Shiro ruins their house or uproots their entire garden or floods their town by accidentally breaking a dam. But Shiro isn’t in the mood to debate, especially when Coran is being so nice.

He turns toward the temple guardian. “It’s why I’ve come here, Coran. To see if the gods know why — why I have _this_ ,” Shiro says and looks at the palms of his strong hands.

Coran’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline and he sticks a forefinger up in the air. “Oh, you are seeking your _destiny_.” He says it so mystically. Shiro doesn’t really believe in fate or destiny. He doesn’t think anyone _really_ does. Maybe Coran does. But, nice as he is, the Altean seems like he might be a few crystals short of a full cavern.

Shiro shrugs, “Or maybe they can take my strength away. Make me normal.” Deep down, he doesn’t want that. But if it would make his life easier, he would take the option; for the good of everyone around him.

Coran is struck silent. He looks at Shiro for a moment before asking, “Oh, my boy, why ever would you want that?” He looks so sad.

The young man wavers. Then admits, “So I stop hurting people.”

The temple guardian looks at him for a long time. Shiro can finally see the signs of age on his face when he isn’t smiling. Coran considers Shiro’s answer with great scrutiny, even turns and mumbles to himself. Or perhaps someone? Shiro isn’t quite sure. It has been a strange day, Shiro is willing to roll with anything. Coran nods when he turns back to Shiro. A decisive, confident nod. “I think you will find the answers you seek here, pilgrim.” He seems like an actual sage now. He holds his shoulders with great certainty. 

“It’s late in the day, so you are the only visitor. Take all the time you need,” Coran says and stretches his unstuck arm out wide, gesturing to the temple’s grand, open entryway. 

Shiro swallows hard. Strange nerves hit him like static electricity. He knows he looks a mess, probably not appropriate for a place of worship. He is sopping wet from head to toe, smells of sweat, and is covered in smudges of volcanic ash. He shakes out his wet two-tone hair and attempts to wipe the dirt from his tunic. His efforts only smear the grime around. 

“It’s okay, the gods don’t judge by appearances,” Coran says. Then pauses with a finger on his chin, “Actually, one might. But I don’t think that’s the one you’re going to appeal to today.”

“Who should I appeal to?” Shiro asks and his youth is more apparent in his wide eyes. He has never done this before.

Coran just smiles. “Ah, a newcomer. You will know. You will feel it.” The man places his hand over his own heart. The notion is very _unscientific_.

Shiro takes a deep breath and gazes up at the pyramid. His gray eyes are unsure. But that is what bravery is, isn’t it? Standing strong in the face of fear. “Okay,” he says. Shiro takes the stairs one at a time and clutches his bag closer. The air closer to the temple feels charged, buzzing with something Shiro cannot understand. 

He stands before the entrance, shoulders square. The entryway towers above him like a gaping maw, ready to swallow him whole. He looks back at Coran one last time, the man waves, and Shiro enters the temple.

———

Now alone, Coran hums to himself. He picks up the fallen stone paw and fits it to its rightful place once more. “He didn’t mean it, old girl,” he says and pats the lion’s head.

The stone piece holds. A light shines from the crack where it severed. Then, the break is gone entirely. The lion statue is whole once more. 

Coran is unphased. As if that exact miracle has happened dozens of times before. He sits down on the steps. He could go into the temple, but Shiro seems like the type to need quiet, contemplative space. The Altean holds up a bottle, the fruits of his labors. “At least he helped me get my nunvil back.”

Coran’s pointed ears perk up. He looks to the statue as if listening. A moment passes before he smiles and says, “Oh yes, I like him too.”

———

The inside of the pyramid looks impossibly larger than the outside. The long, main room stretches the entire length of the temple and Shiro can’t remember visiting a structure so grand in all his nineteen years. The interior is open and warm, lit by glowing torches and wall braziers of pure energy: a type of technology humans have not learned how to harness yet. The walls are tall and windowless, made of the same ivory stone blocks as the exterior. Shiro eyes a blue crystal in the center of the hall. It carries the volume of a sizable boulder and sits on a wide pedestal, pulsing like a heartbeat. One day science will explain everything. For now, he chalks it up to ancient magic.

Five enormous stone statues line the walls. Three on one side and two on the other. 

A sixth alcove where another statue should be sits vacant.

The hall is eerily quiet save for his own echoing footsteps and the wind whistling through cracks in the walls. He feels anxious. Shiro pulls his shawl closer and approaches the first statue.

A robust man with a wide smile sits with both feet planted firmly on the ground. His throne is surrounded by stone food containers and barrels. He cradles a large wheat bundle in the crook of one arm. His other arm is bent, a hand over his heart. The base of the statue is littered with offerings — tiny shards of blue crystal, fruit, glass bottles, or rolled scraps of paper that are weighed down by small pebbles. Shiro looks down the line and realizes all the statues have offerings. He did not come prepared. He looks at the carving at the base:

_Hunk  
God of Harvest, Love, and Hearth  
Patron Protector of Balmerans_

Shiro likes him. He has the face of someone kind and who listens well. But Shiro thinks he is not the right choice. He moves on.

The next is much smaller in stature. She has a clever, confident look about her. She sits with her legs pulled up and crossed over a throne carved with blocky, Olkarion designs and wrapped in gnarled vines. An open book rests in one hand and in the other: a simple cube. Shiro could be mistaken, but the cube appears to float above her hand. At the base are books, small potted plants, and pieces from machinery like cogs and bolts. The plaque at the base says:

_Pidge  
Goddess of Nature, Intelligence,  
and Technology  
Patron Protector of the Olkari_

Still not right, but Shiro likes what she stands for.

Rather than sitting in his chair, the next god lounges. The lithe, sharp faced young man has an ankle hooked on the opposite knee and leans back in his throne, relaxed and, albeit, a little smug. One elbow is propped on the armrest and his jaw rests on his fist. A bow and quiver of arrows leans against the side of his throne which is carved with aquatic designs Shiro thinks he’s seen from ancient illustrations of mer-folk. His outstretched hand holds the stem of a rose. Coins, roses, bits of mirror, and smooth pieces of sea glass have been placed as offerings. Shiro steps closer:

_Lance  
God of Confidence, Humor, and Change  
Patron Protector of Humans_

It says humans but...Shiro knows this is not the one.

The next is Galran. He is an imposing figure, larger than any of the gods thus far. He is dressed in battle armor, seated with pride on a throne made of sharp points and carved with the Galra symbol. He holds the hilt of a sword in one hand, blade pointed downward into the floor, and his other outstretched palm, clawed fingers splayed, holds a blaze of fire. His face is void of emotion. The offerings for him are plentiful: knives, shards of flint, chunks of metal, animal fangs and bones, and small vials that glow. Shiro gently moves aside a jagged blade to see the plaque.

_Sendak  
God of Warfare, Death, and Rebirth  
Patron Protector of the Galra_

Definitely not what Shiro wants. That, and he feels unsettled when he looks up at the statue’s face.

The next space is vacant. 

So that leaves only one.

She is a strong, beautiful figure. Her stance is graceful, head held high and proud. She sits forward in her Altean marked throne at the ready, feet set close together on the ground. In one hand she holds the stem of a juniberry and the other is open and empty, reaching out. The base of her throne is carpeted in juniberry flowers. In an enclosed space, the smell of them is sickly sweet and overpowering. Among the other gifts laid are pieces of jewelry, small olive branches, and small tokens engraved with depictions of mice. He reads the plaque:

_Allura  
Goddess of Honor, Leadership, and Mercy  
Patron Protector of Alteans_

She is the one. Whatever Coran was talking about, Shiro feels it. He should have picked a juniberry when he was outside. Too late now, to exit the temple for one would be mildly embarrassing.

Shiro takes his bag from his shoulder and rifles through the meager belongings he brought on the journey. He pulls out the last apricot, small and bruised, and places it near the statue’s feet. It was a gesture of good will — of mercy, perhaps — from the children. So Shiro thinks it may be appropriate, though it dwarfs in comparison to the other gifts laid for her.

Shiro takes a few steps back and regards the Goddess Allura again. He isn’t entirely sure what to do.

“Um, hello,” Shiro says and the voice that echoes back startles him. He got used to the quiet.

Shiro lowers to one knee and sets his bag on the floor. He sucks in a breath. The hum under his skin intensifies. He felt it the moment he stepped foot in the temple and now his body practically reverberates with it.

Here goes nothing. 

“Goddess Allura,” he says and bows his head, “Please, I’ve come here seeking answers. Why do I have this gift? There must be a reason. Tell me what to do with it. Please, tell me where I belong.”

He waits.

Nothing happens. The wind blows.

Of course nothing happens.

“I guess, give me a sign or something. Send me in the right direction — “

A roar breaks through the quiet like a crash of thunder and startles Shiro to his feet. He thinks he has imagined it for a moment, before the temple lights dim and reignite themselves in a pink hue. Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro sees the large central crystal burn brighter and brighter, humming like the feeling under his skin. He covers his face with an arm when it practically blinds him. 

Suddenly, the glaring light shatters and a beam of cool blue shoots out from the column base. Shiro can see again and he watches the light line zig zagging along a groove in the floor like a lightning bolt. It draws nearer and nearer, but Shiro feels he doesn’t have to be afraid of it. The glow dashes between his feet, up through the juniberries, and into Allura’s statue.

The light crackles and expands, branching off until an entire network of thin, crystal lines covers the surface of the statue. It’s dazzling. Shiro has never seen anything like it. 

He thinks he is hallucinating when the statue’s outspread fingers twitch. 

They twitch again and Shiro supposes maybe he _is_ hallucinating. He falls back when the fingers clench into a fist with the crunch of stone on stone. The statue’s eyes break open, glowing bright and infinite. Shiro scrambles backwards on all fours, but he doesn’t get all that far before the goddess’s eyes turn toward him and he is petrified to the spot. It’s a look that can bring down empires; that burns with the strength of the sun. 

Shiro is out of his depth.

Gradually, the light in her eyes fades and is replaced by an icy blue and purple — almost Earthly. She blinks once, twice, knocking pebbles from her eyelashes. Shiro is struck by her smile. 

“I can do much better than a _sign_ , my dear Shiro.” Her voice is level, but loud. She is an enormous statue, after all.

Shiro stares. His eyes are wide open. His chest is heaving. Do juniberries cause hallucinations? Is that possible? Maybe he has finally cracked. Every fibre in his body wants to run from the temple, but he is impossibly frozen to the spot. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water.

The Allura statue holds up her free palm. “Take your time. I agree this is a lot to take in,” she says. 

The understatement of a century, Shiro thinks. He looks around. No sign of Coran. No immediate help. If the statue decides to smite him for breaking her lion statue, Shiro just has to outrun her — a terrifying thought. Allura patiently waits, watching Shiro’s expressions shuffle through different stages of shock and bargaining. 

When Shiro finally finds his voice, he can’t help but ask, “Does this... _always_ happen when people come here?” He is still sprawled on the ground, halfway between the imposing figures of Allura and Sendak.

She smiles and laughs. Shiro is sure she intends for her laughter to be soft and polite. Instead, it booms through the cavernous space like the crack of waves against a cliff. “No, you are special. I have been waiting for you for some time. We have been waiting. You have grown up so well, Shiro.”

He is alleviated by her smile. She doesn’t make any sudden movements. If anything, the statue appears confined to her throne; with her motions limited to her arms and head. Allura has a calming energy about her and Shiro trusts it. Her eyes look familiar. He can almost hear the tinkling of her earrings, like a memory.

Shiro stands. “Waiting? I don’t understand.” There are _a lot_ of things he doesn’t understand right now.

Allura’s chest raises with a deep breath. “You were born on Mount Voltron,” she says. The notion is so absurd, Shiro doesn’t completely process it. He looks up at the goddess blankly, little gears in his head turning and turning. Allura seems alarmed by his lack of response, her expression exceptionally human. “Shiro, you are our brother.”

The rubble from the column hit him harder than he thought. That’s what this was. “I think you’ve got the wrong person,” is the only thing Shiro can think to say.

“No, I’m quite positive,” says the goddess. 

Shiro reaches up and runs his hands through his hair. He tries to keep up with the waves of thoughts and questions that flood his brain. He speaks his thought process aloud, “But that would make me — “

“ — a god,” Allura finishes. She looks very concerned for his well being.

Shiro has had enough for today.

“I, uh, I’m sorry — That’s — I think I need to sit back down.” He crumples on the spot, stumbling onto his rear like he has forgotten how to walk.

Allura smiles, almost guiltily. “Not exactly what you expected, is it?”

Shiro shakes his head.

The goddess holds up both hands — both free and bearing a juniberry — and waves them. “Surprise!” It’s her attempt to soften the blow. Shiro is still reeling.

His whole life. His whole life Shiro believed he was some sort of freak. Cursed. A scientific impossibility. A natural anomaly. But never, ever, ever did he consider the possibility that he was a lost god. Shiro doubted his parents knew. Which brought him to the next thought bouncing around in his overstimulated head: “What happened? Why am I not with you? Did I do something wrong?” he asks, eyes troubled.

Allura looks physically pained. “Oh, Shiro, no. You were a child. You were _wonderful_ in every way,” she smiles sadly, like she knows. As if, in her omniscient wisdom, she has seen the grief and torment Shiro has experienced as an outsider all his life. Shiro feels a pang in his heart: _wonderful in every way._ His mother once told him that. 

Allura continues, “But someone stole you from us. We don’t know why. They made you mortal and only gods can live on Mount Voltron. We couldn’t bring you home.” 

The sadness in her eyes makes Shiro sink. He feels so young, so small in comparison to Allura and the tale she weaves; like it must be the story of someone else. “So, that's...it then?” he asks. Shiro can only dare to hope.

Allura’s face brightens. “There is nothing we can do, but you _can_.”

Shiro scrambles to his feet, that dangerous hope bubbling in his chest. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is,” he says. 

He doesn’t want to be a god. Not really. Shiro is too afraid of power to ever bring that kind of burden down on himself. But when he looks at Allura, so resplendent in presence, so sure of the being she is and the adoration she receives and deserves — Shiro wants _that_. He wants to know his place in the universe. 

“Shiro, if you can prove yourself a true hero on Earth then your godhood and immortality will be restored,” she explains. It sounds so simple in those terms.

Shiro steps forward. He isn’t afraid of her towering figure anymore. “A true hero? How do I do that?”

“First, you must learn how to utilize your power.” Shiro’s expression must falter because the goddess shakes her head. “You must not fear it, Shiro. Your power is a responsibility and a gift. Not even the person who took you from us could rob you of it. You must be proud. Training will teach you how to harness it, to use it to its full potential. To do good.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. He doesn’t believe it, but he says it a second time to convince himself. “Okay. So what do I do? Is there someone — “

“His name is Yorak,” the glowing statue says. She has the name at the ready like she has been itching to tell him. With a name like that, Shiro imagines a towering, mean looking man with tattoos and a mace. 

“He is the former trainer of many champions in the Galran Coliseum — the best there is. He lives on an island in the Dalterion Sea. Something of a hermit these days.” Shiro doesn’t know how he feels about that. A towering Galran with tattoos, a mace, and a sour attitude. Later, he would find only one aspect of his mental image to be correct. “Under his tutelage you will undoubtedly prove yourself a true hero. Then, you can reclaim your place with us on Mount Voltron. You can come home, my dear Shiro.”

Home. It is almost too fantastical to be true. A place to belong is all Shiro ever wanted. His chest feels so full. He feels like he could lift the entire pyramid with one arm.

“I won’t let you down,” he promises.

Allura smiles. “I know you won’t. Come. Your journey is long. And it will be very difficult. The least I can do is give you a head start.” The statue leans down and offers her open palm. Shiro doesn’t hesitate. He has second guessed himself his entire life. It was time to take some chances. Shiro doesn’t know what the universe has in store for him next, but he faces it with a heart full of courage and hope. He grabs his bag from the floor and steps up into her palm. 

“Any advice?” he asks. She lifts him high in the air with an alarming amount of force and he staggers from the movement. But Shiro isn’t afraid. 

“Don’t let Yorak scare you away. His destiny is intertwined with yours,” Allura says. Shiro nods and feels like she means something more than mentorship, but he doesn’t have the mind to ask. The goddess brings him level to her face, breathes in deep, and blows.

Stardust pours out from her lips in a shimmering cloud. It floats and surrounds him, and, suddenly, he glows with the same power of the crystal below. His heart skips beats. The lock of hair against his forehead floats. Made up of stardust, he feels almost invincible. Shiro wonders if that is what he will feel like when he becomes a god.

“Good luck, Shiro,” Allura smiles.

Suddenly, he is gone. His glowing body rushes out of the temple doors and into the night sky like a shooting star. Coran, still sitting on the steps and idly chatting to the lion statue, has no idea what to think of the phenomenon.

———

Allura sits in the silence for a moment and then lets out the tension in her stone shoulders with a sigh. “Family meeting,” she calls to the hall.

The crystal burns bright again, the illumination shatters, and several bolts of light shoot out from beneath the base. 

Hunk comes to life first, shaking out a shiver. Then Pidge, with a yawn. And then Lance who looks at either shoulder and cringes before wiping away mounds of bird poop with his free hand. Their awakenings are surprisingly unceremonious and ungraceful, but no one is there to judge. Being a god is a lot of pomp and circumstance and whatever chance they get to be casual is gladly taken.

Everyone’s eyes turn to look at Sendak's motionless statue. “Yoo-hoo. Sendak. You home?” Hunk calls.

No answer. Lance picks up a piece of sea glass, just a speck in between two huge fingers, and flicks it at Sendak’s face. No response. They let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Well, I think that went well,” Pidge says, twirling the floating cube above her fingertips.

Allura rubs a hand against her temple. “It almost didn’t happen at all. Good idea to send those children, Hunk. He was about to give up.”

Hunk smiles, big and proud, “No one can resist their big doe eyes. No one.”

Lance leans over and looks to Allura. “You think it’s a good idea to send him to Keith? Humans and Galra aren’t on the best terms right now,” he says.

“They could just tear each other apart,” Pidge nods.

Hunk, always the optimist, says, “I think Shiro might have what it takes. He’s got a strong heart.”

Allura twirls the juniberry between her fingers. “I agree. And a very tenacious spirit. Besides, Keith will never come to us on his own. And what is that human phrase? Hit two birds with one rock?”

“Stone,” says Lance, “But same difference.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think this is crack? Because I’m writing this in honesty. And because it’s super fun and makes sense in my head. I liked the idea of exploring Keith as a mentor figure and Shiro as a junior.
> 
> I wanted to keep elements of VLD, so what has resulted is sort of Voltron/Ancient Greece hybrid. I mish-mashed things so... I hope the ride is comprehensible and enjoyable!


	2. One Last Hope

Shiro hurdles to the ground like a human asteroid.

The sensation is strange, but the impact hurts about as much as one might expect. Like running a carriage straight into a wall. 

Shiro is vaguely aware his arrival scares a flock of birds from their roost. He can hear their caws and the flap of their wings rise and fade as they fly away someplace safer. Shiro cracks open his eyes with a groan, and blinks up at an overcast, gray-purple sky. For a moment, he doesn’t remember where he came from. Or, more importantly, why he is sprawled out at the base of a giant hole in the ground, gazing up at an unrecognizable morning sky. He sees the fringe of trees in a circle above; feels a sticky heat in the air.

 _An island in the Dalterion Sea_ , comes Allura’s voice. _Yorak_. The memory of the temple floods back in like a wave.

Shiro places his hands on his head, chest, stomach — everything appears to be attached. He knocks away a layer of wet dirt and moss covered pebbles as he sits up. After everything he has experienced in the past twenty four hours, Shiro is in desperate need of a shower. Something flickers in the corner of his eye. Shiro finds the shoulder of his tunic alight with blue flame. He pats it out with a handful of dirt and a relatively wholesome curse word.

With the first emergency of the day sorted and his mind less foggy, Shiro takes in his surroundings again. All around him the ground is charred black, streaked with an unnatural pattern. Magic, of course. Guess he believes in it now. Everything above the lip of the crater is relatively unknown, but what he can see seems lush and foreign. 

Shiro staggers to his feet with the grace of a newborn gazelle. He learns quickly that traveling a human meteorite has strange effects. His body still buzzes with stardust, and whatever fatigue he felt before is gone. He is alert and full of energy just....incapable of basic physical function. It’s almost like Shiro has guzzled one too many cups of Arusian coffee and the caffeine rush in his veins makes his limbs act on their own accord. It is a slightly frustrating affair, but Shiro eventually clamors over the side of the hole and onto flat ground. He stands on wobbly legs.

The crater is the size of a house.

A dense, tropical forest looms around the cavity. The tall canopy stretches far into the sky and bright, otherworldly flowers bloom straight from the tree trunks in shades of pink, orange, and purple. Fern-like plants sprout from the ground with heart shaped leaves as large and wide as Shiro’s torso. One of the leaves nearby sags heavy with a small reservoir of water. Shiro goes to it and carefully cradles the frond in his trembling hands. He finds his own reflection in the crystal clear rainwater — Shiro is a mess. But the water tastes sweet and earthy and wonderful.

Cushioned by layers of dead leaves and mulch, the ground is soft and springy beneath his feet. The forest is noisy — birds whistle and screech and an unknown creature trills in the distance. Shiro thinks he sees some kind of small, colorful mouse dart from beneath a bush and up a tree. He gets the distinct feeling he is being _watched_. 

It’s beautiful, teeming with life, and Shiro realizes he is a long way from anything familiar. But Shiro brims with excitement and anticipation. This is the start of a new journey.

Shiro plunges into the colorful thicket. Slowly but surely, his coordination returns. But not until he trips over a tree root or two. Although he doesn’t have a target, he knows Allura wouldn’t stray him far from the path. So he follows his instincts. He pushes branches aside as he goes, careful of where he steps. He marvels at strange, spotted mushrooms and stops to smell the flowers only twice. Shiro wonders if a full catalogue of the forest’s specimens exists in the world — he can’t imagine. That rainforest would take several lifetimes to research.

After some time, once the sun has fully risen and the air is twice as muggy, Shiro comes to a river. The river is small — only ten feet from bank to bank — and flows westward. Shiro knows well enough that following water will eventually lead him to civilization, whether it be a village or a private cottage. From there, he can ask for directions or clues to Yorak.

Shiro wipes away a sheen of sweat from his brow and follows the winding current. He treks for a quarter of a mile before he notices the canopy begin to thin. He hears a powerful rush of water and, even more alarming, the sounds of a violent struggle. A human battlecry. The roar of a beast Shiro does not recognize. He quickens his pace. 

The forest opens up to a steep cliffside overlooking a vast ocean. In the distance, Shiro can see the faint outline of the mainland beyond the sea. Such a long, long way from home. The river spreads and flows over the bedrock at Shiro’s feet before splitting off and spilling over the cliff’s edge into what must be a magnificent double waterfall. Under better circumstances, Shiro would stand at the edge, enjoy the view, and breathe in the cool, salty air. Now was not the time.

Shiro’s eyes land on a beast he can only conjure in his worst nightmares. It is a wild cat twice the size of a bull and four times as ferocious. The creature’s lithe, red fur covered body stands on six legs and its hind legs look like they have the power to knock down trees with one kick. Its fangs are the size of Shiro’s forearms. A long tail flicks back and forth and its long, talon like claws dig into the rockbed as it strains forward, hell bent on sinking into its prey.

A young man faces off against the creature...keeping its massive, fanged mouth at bay with his _bare hands_. He flashes his teeth right back; blunt and human. But he snaps his jaws like an animal.

After a moment of shock, Shiro springs into action. He doesn’t have a plan, all he knows is that he has to help. But he only makes it three long strides before the young man notices him out of the corner of his eye and yells, “Stay back!” The creature lunges forward and the man with black hair takes a forced, retreating step and his outstretched arms shake from the extra strain.

Shiro stops on command. _Always ask if they need help_ , the voice in his head advises, _you might just make it worse_. But when the creature takes another step forward, almost pushing the young man to his knees, Shiro insists, “I can help!” For once, he really believes what he says.

“I don’t need help from a _human teenager_ ,” cries the other young human, seemingly oblivious to his own state of being.

“Trust me, I can — Watch out!”

The creature's tail whips like a cobra strike and wraps around the young fighter’s ankle. A giant red leopard with a prehensile tail — now Shiro has seen everything. The appendage pulls and the young man’s legs slip out from underneath him. He hits the shallow river like a ragdoll before being pulled upwards, hanging upside down in the air by one leg. He procures an exotic, curved sword from a scabbard at the small of his back and thrashes at the creature. Despite the rising panic, the swings are strategic — aimed at the creature’s eyes or nose — and the tactic keeps its fanged mouth at bay. 

“Just stay out of the way so you don’t get hurt!” the young man yells, flushed red from the blood draining to his face.

Shiro’s heart pounds as genuine fear takes over. He can’t just watch this person get _eaten_ and not do _anything_. He urges, “I can _really_ help you out here — “

The creature suddenly decides it’s had enough of the sword slicing at its face. The tail throws its captive with a whiplash of force and sends him crashing into a tree at the edge of the forest. Shiro is both terrified and relieved. Relieved, because the young man isn’t tossed over the cliff and down into the pitching ocean waves. Terrified, because his slender body hits the tree trunk with a resounding _crack_ and he crumples to the ground in a daze. 

The creature revolves, lowers its shoulders and head in anticipation of a pounce. The young fighter is barely stumbling to his feet, grasping for his sword in the shallow water. With the sediment kicked up, he can’t find it.

Shiro acts on pure impulse. He waves his arms high over his head, “Hey! Hey! Over here!” The mutant leopard turns its yellow eyes on Shiro. Its irises narrow and Shiro steels himself for an attack. Because he knows running isn’t an option. Maybe this is how he becomes a hero. Or maybe, this is how he dies. 

A rock hits the back of the creature’s head as Shiro’s brain quick fires through his options. The leopard staggers from the blow and turns its back to Shiro. Both the creature and Shiro are surprised by the interruption. 

The fighter is back on his feet, shoulders square, sword in his hand; ready for more. His persistence is astounding. His fury — terrifying. Shiro couldn’t move against the other man’s will if he tried.

The black haired man spits blood into the river, like it’s nothing. Like he does this every day. “Do you have a death wish?! I’m not some damsel in distress!” he snarls, “Just stay. Out. Of. My. _Way!_ ” 

He rises on the balls of his feet and rushes forward with unmatchable ferocity. Shiro thinks he charges the creature head on — maybe he’s not as smart as Shiro thinks he is — when the fighter purposefully hits the ground. He slides on his hip through the river water, ducking underneath the creature’s snapping jaw, and between its legs. In a move Shiro’s human eyes almost don’t register, the young man swings his blade and slices through the Achilles tendons on the creature’s hind legs.

The leopard throws back its head and roars to the sky. In a moment of youthful optimism, Shiro celebrates with triumphant cry. The fighter smirks, eyes glancing in Shiro’s direction, but seems to know better. He rises to his feet at the first opportunity. 

Because now the creature stands on four legs and lunges with newfound rage. The black haired man is prepared but tumbles back from the force all the same, using his sword to keep the animal at bay. Shiro lurches forward, but stops short. The wrong move could put the beast at an advantage. The adrenaline coursing through Shiro’s veins has him on edge; has him watching for an opening — though he wouldn’t be able to recognize one if he saw it. He knows he doesn’t have that kind of training. And the struggle is messy. Shiro’s eyes have a hard time keeping up.

The young man cries out in pain — something twisted and horrible — and the sound ignites something in Shiro. Something he doesn’t quite understand just yet. He bounds forward on instinct just as the fighter braces a leg against the leopard's chest and kicks. An opening; Shiro sees it clear as day. The creature staggers back a few steps and the man has clearance to stand. He makes the mistake of checking the gash in his thigh. But Shiro is right there, arm reaching out for the creature’s tail. All he has to do is —

He feels the red fur slip through his fingers as the creature pounces.

Its claws push into the fighter’s shoulders. They tumble. Shiro sucks in a breath, holds it.

Both man and beast tip over the cliff’s edge and disappear from sight.

Shiro’s heart stops. “No, no, no no — “

He bolts to the nearest cut of the cliff, eyes searching the waves. The dark waters crash against crags and rocks below with a force that could crack bones on impact. No creature. No man. Nothing. And what would he do if he sees the young man drowning in the depths? Scale the sharp cliff? Dive down to his own demise? He doesn’t know. Shiro’s panicked mind races with all those ugly, self deprecating thoughts. He should have done something. Should have. Could have. This is not how a hero should act. Shiro has watched a man fall to his death. He feels nauseous. He can barely breathe. 

Shiro makes for the furthest part of the cliff; the section they toppled from. He stops short. 

A distinctly human hand reaches up and clutches at the ledge, trembling fingers curling around a cut in the bedrock. A second appears and the fist plunges a dagger straight into the rock to create another handhold. The young man’s mop of black hair peeks up over the cliff. Alive. A wave of relief washes over Shiro.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he says. But Shiro can’t take ‘no’ for an answer anymore. He wraps a hand around one of the fighter’s elbows and tugs, gently. Tellingly, the young man takes his other outstretched hand. Shiro pulls him up back onto solid ground and steps back, giving them both a little breathing space.

The fighter pants heavily and his brow is coated in sweat, but he seems otherwise untroubled by the near death experience. He yanks the dagger from the ground, sheathes it — Shiro could have sworn it was a full length blade just a moment before — and leans down to scoop river water into his cupped hands. He splashes some over his face, wipes the rest back into his hair, and Shiro sees his features in clarity for the first time. 

A youthful, post excitement flush stretches from his open collar, up over his strong jaw to his high cheekbones. He is vibrant, riding high on his success and a battle well won. A cool, seabreeze sweeps across the cliffs and ruffles his black, overgrown locks. It knocks the water droplets from his sharp nose and long eyelashes.

When he says, “Told you I could handle it.” Shiro doesn’t know which is sharper: his eyes or his grin.

Though he doesn’t feel it at that moment, an arrow strikes Shiro straight through the heart. He does, however, feel the need to pick his metaphorical jaw off the floor and get ahold of himself.

The fighter gathers up the apron of his sopping gray and blue tunic and twists the fabric to wring it out. His clothes are of Galran design but Shiro is too caught up in watching the fighter’s every move to put two and two together. He has no idea what to say. _Where did you learn to fight like that? Are you okay? How is your leg? Let me help you._ Shiro’s head is a rush of thoughts. “That was — “

“You seem like you’re a long way from home,” the young man interrupts. Shiro can tell it’s not meant to be idle small talk; the man is just that straight forward. He is clearly not interested in Shiro’s compliments. Perhaps he has heard them one too many times before. Or maybe he is bad at receiving them. 

A sheepish smile spreads across Shiro’s face. He gravitates closer unintentionally. “Is it that obvious?”

The fighter shrugs and moves closer to the treeline. He tries to cover up a limp, but Shiro can see it. He wants to offer his shoulder, but his intuition keeps him back. “No one from around here would ever purposefully pick a fight with a red jaguar,” says the young man. He winces as he takes a seat on a boulder. Shiro knows it’s a backhanded compliment, but he only catalogues the positive part in his mind: the other man thinks he has guts. “That, and I live on this island alone.”

Shiro’s brain stops. He doesn’t even attempt to hide his confusion. “Alone?” he asks, “I was told to come and find someone named Yorak. He doesn’t live here anymore?”

The name makes the young man cringe and sigh. “My friends call me Keith. At least they would, if I had any friends,” he says and removes one boot to dump the water trapped inside.

Shiro’s eyes widen. “You’re Yorak?”

“Yeah.”

Shiro had a long time to daydream and think as he trekked through the forest. He pondered the definition of a ‘true hero’ (he still doesn’t have an answer) and he imagined the crazy, dangerous training exercises in store for him on his new journey. He conjured Yorak in his mind — an intimidating, seven foot Galran warrior living in a swamp with a home decorated like an armory. Keith is, in no way, what Shiro pictured. 

“I was expecting someone — “

Keith shoves his boot back on with more violence than necessary. He stands and takes a threatening step into Shiro’s space. He is a few inches shorter, but he is nothing short of intimidating. If looks could kill, Shiro would be dead on the spot. “Someone _what_? C’mon, say it,” he spits. Shiro has, unknowingly, hit a sore spot. He knows better than to press.

Shiro swallows. He thinks fast. “...older.”

Keith’s eyes narrow and dart across Shiro’s alarmed expression, searching for a crack in his resolve. They both know Shiro was going to say something else. After a moment, Keith decides to let the issue lie. “Sorry to disappoint,” he says, bitterly. 

Keith turns for the forest and, without another word, disappears into the tropical brush. 

Shiro is at a loss. He wishes he had more instructions; wishes he knew, for certainty, that Keith was the mentor he sought. But he is friendless on a perilous, exotic island with nothing but his wits, his muscle, and a satchel of extra clothes. He has no choice but to follow. That, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. Keith, with his skilled hands and his piercing eyes, is an enigma to him. He wants — no, Shiro _needs_ to know more about him. 

Shiro pushes back into the forest. Cut off from the ocean air, the jungle steams with heat and the smell of wet mulch. Keith hasn’t gotten far and Shiro catches up easily, trailing the young man like a lost puppy. Keith clearly knows his way around the terrain. Shiro, like before, struggles. Keith pushes a palm frond out of his way and unintentionally smacks Shiro in the face with it. He clearly isn’t used to the company. 

“Wait so you’re Yorak? The person who trained gladiators for the Galran coliseum? _That_ Yorak?” Shiro asks, swatting the branch from his face.

“Gods, stop using that name. Only my mom calls me that,” Keith calls over his shoulder. He takes out his dagger. Right before Shiro’s eyes, the blade glows and protracts, transforming into a curved sword. Alright, more magic. Keith raises the blade above his head and cuts through the plants that block his path. “And yes. That Yorak. What do you want?”

Shiro gathers his courage. “I’ve come to ask for your mentorship.”

“I’m retired,” Keith says, without taking a breath. 

Shiro is momentarily disheartened, but it will take more than a sour attitude to make him turn back. His whole life is at stake. “But I need you to train me. It’s really important,” he urges.

Keith stops and spins on his heel. He is irritated, no doubt, and it feels as if this conversation has happened before. With a multitude of other people. “Look, no offence, but I’m not gonna train a human. You just don’t have what it takes,” he says with a shrug. Shiro frowns. Again with the human thing. Keith must have lived among the Galra for so long he thinks himself one of them. 

“I know. I get it. You’re the strongest man in your town. You want to go after that big coliseum prize. Fame, glory, money. You want it to bring honor to your family. Build a house for grandma. I’ve heard it all before. A word of advice: it’s not worth it.” He sounds so tired and jaded for someone who looks so young.

“No, no, that’s not what I want,” Shiro assures him.

Keith’s eyes narrow, suspicious. “Then what _do_ you want?”

“I need to become a true hero.” Shiro’s expression is open and honest. He has given Keith no reason to suspect an ulterior motive. 

The young fighter’s jaw ticks, perplexed. At least Shiro’s approach is different from the rest. He keeps his guard up all the same, turns, and swipes at the greenery again. “...That sounds a lot like fame, glory, and money to me,” he says.

Shiro feels like he is talking to a brick wall. But he remembers what Allura told him: _Don’t let Yorak scare you away _. So he doubles down and decides the best way to win Keith over is to explain the predicament he has found himself in. He hops over a mess of mangled tree roots and stands in Keith’s path. It’s bold, especially when Keith grips a weapon, but Shiro feels safe around him. He can’t explain why. “I need to become a true hero so I can rejoin my family on Mount Voltron,” Shiro confesses.__

__The pause that follows is painful. For the first time since they met, Keith looks genuinely startled. Heat rises to Shiro’s face when he recognizes his mistake. If he were a turtle, Shiro would pull all his limbs into his shell and hide._ _

__“...Okay, it sounds _insane_ when I say it out loud,” he concedes._ _

__“Yeah,” Keith agrees. He taps Shiro’s rib cage with the flat of his blade, signalling for him to move. Shiro steps to the side, too mortified to do anything else. Keith brushes past him._ _

__Shiro rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. This is so much harder than he thought it would be. _Allura, help me._ He turns to look for Keith and the young man is already out of sight, a curtain of vines swinging in his wake. Shiro runs after him._ _

__Shiro emerges on the other side of the curtain to find a small, open glade. By the amount of tilled dirt and tree stumps, Shiro surmises Keith cleared the area himself. On the far end sits a tall, wooden edifice. Keith’s home, presumably. With its dried banana leaf roof and vine covered walls, the multi-level building looks more like a permanent jungle feature than a manmade structure. It appears sturdy, especially where it has been built and incorporated into the side of several mossy rock formations. But it has a patchwork sort of look to it, as if each section has been added over time — years, perhaps._ _

__To the right of the structure stands a small orchard and a rudimentary garden. Colorful, leafy greens and other exotic vegetables Shiro does not recognize sprout from the ground in long, neat rows. Some look healthy. Some look like they need more care._ _

__Again, it shatters Shiro’s expectations. He takes too long to gawk and Keith is already at his front door. For a wounded man, he sure moves fast._ _

__“Please, wait!” Shiro calls, feet pounding into the dirt as he jogs._ _

__But Keith’s hand is already on the door handle when he turns to say, “Sorry, can’t help you.” Shiro has to squint to see the uncertainty in Keith’s expression._ _

__The door closing pushes Shiro over an internal ledge. After everything he has endured — leaving home, the ridicule at the fallen agora, discovering his past, literally plunging from the sky like a comet — this is the final straw. Shiro’s patience and composure snap like a string pulled too taut; doomed to break under the right stress. He can’t let this chance slip away. He can’t take ‘no’ as an answer. _His destiny is intertwined with yours.__ _

__Just as Keith shuts the door, Shiro grasps the outside door handle and yanks back with a fraction of his strength. The door’s hinges rip from the frame as easily as peeling the rind from an orange. Screws and a few odd pieces of metal scatter the ground but the door is relatively intact as Shiro suspends it above his head. Unexpectedly, Keith is attached by the inside handle. Arm raised high in the air and lifted on the tips of his toes, the fighter’s baffled expression sits only a few inches from Shiro’s own face. It’s not really what Shiro intended, but destruction of private property always gets people’s attention._ _

__The proximity makes them both uncomfortable and Shiro’s eyes travel from the detached door. “I’m sorry — I’ll fix it. I — “ he assures, with less panic than usual._ _

__“What is your _problem?_ ” Keith gapes. He pulls and Shiro eases his grip. Keith jerks backward and the door thumps to the ground between them. The young fighter assesses the damage. Shiro knows he has not won any points with his stunt. Keith shoves the door back in its place and it wedges in its old place, crooked and still very much broken. “Gods. They think ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and ‘get lost’ means ‘I’m all yours’,” mumbles to himself. _ _

__Shiro rubs his palms over his face. “I’m sorry — I just — I need you to _listen_. I was sent here by the Goddess Allura to receive training from you. She told me I need to become a true hero so I can fulfill my destiny and become a god again,” he explains. Like the details would actually make a difference._ _

__Keith stops fiddling with his front door, turns, and stares. His patience wears thin. “You’re not helping your case.”_ _

__Shiro has only one more card to play. He searches the grove for inspiration. A large, intimidating rock twice his height sits wedged into the ground a few yards away. Hope bubbles in his chest. With Keith’s prickly attitude, Shiro knows he only has one chance to impress. He holds out his hands and backpedals. “Hold on, here, let me show you. Let me show you, I’m different,” he says and makes for the boulder._ _

__“You’re different alright,” Keith mumbles to himself, crossing his arms._ _

__“Do you need this?”_ _

__Keith makes a face. “It’s an annoying boulder in the middle of my front yard. Why would I — “_ _

__Shiro squats, wraps his arms around the rock, and rends the stone fixture from the earth just as effortlessly as he tore the door from its slot. He is running on desperation and not thinking clearly, because it would have been painfully easy for him to lose his grip and fling the boulder into Keith’s house. And that would have been the end of it all._ _

__But luck is on Shiro’s side as he spins once, twice, and hurls the rock into the sky. It catapults at top speed past the canopy, above the clouds, and shrinks to a speck before it disappears from sight. Shiro feels a swell of pride. He turns to look at Keith, expecting the usual reaction —_ _

__Keith is already up against him, fist clenched in Shiro’s tunic and blade tucked under his chin. It threatens to push up, make a slice in the tender flesh under his jaw. Keith looks like he did fighting the red jaguar — eyes ablaze, lithe body a livewire of electricity. At least Shiro has his attention._ _

__“Alright, _who_ are you? Who sent you?” he demands._ _

__Shiro can do nothing but hold up his hands and tilt back his head, inching away from Keith’s deadly grip. He knows, instinctively, the man will not hurt him. He is just reacting as some do when Shiro reveals his strength — out of fear. “My name is Shiro. I’m from the mainland, near Garrison City. I’m not — I told you, Allura sent me,” he repeats._ _

__“Bullshit,” Keith spits and threatens pressure. “Someone from the coliseum sent you, didn’t they? What do they want?”_ _

__“I’m telling the truth, Keith,” Shiro swears. The man’s name tingles on his tongue. He hasn’t said it until just then, but the sensation feels so familiar. Like breathing. “I’ve never been to the coliseum.” Shiro swallows and the lump in his throat bobs._ _

__“How did you get here? I never saw a ship.”_ _

__Shiro hesitates. “Uh, that’s...a little hard to explain. I can show you the crater.”_ _

__Keith bores holes into Shiro’s skull with just his stare. He watches, long and hard, as if he could read the stranger's thoughts with enough determination. Shiro just looks back with a slightly frightened, mostly expectant expression. He has always been the transparent sort, yet Keith seems to have trouble getting a read on him. He finally removes his sword from his throat and takes a step back._ _

__Then he really throws Shiro for a loop._ _

__“Is this some sort of joke? Did Ulaz put you up to this?” he asks._ _

__“What?”_ _

__Keith twists and searches the forest perimeter. “Because it’s not funny, Ulaz! So you can just come on out now. Nobody’s laughing!” he calls out into the tropical wilderness. Shiro turns as well, only half expecting something to happen._ _

__A bird cackles in the distance and a bush rustles. Otherwise, Keith receives no response. He has called out to no one and it is Shiro’s turn to be alarmed. Maybe something in the forest made them both go a little mad._ _

__Keith revolves on Shiro with an attitude more bad-tempered than before. As if it’s Shiro’s fault Ulaz didn’t suddenly spring from the trees. “Let’s say I buy your story. That you’re some lost god. Whatever that means,” he says, “What’s in it for me?”_ _

__Shiro...did not think about that. “I, uh — Oh. I don’t have much money — “_ _

__“That’s what I thought,” Keith says. He throws his hands in the air. “You have no idea what you’re asking for, do you? I have molded some of the greatest warriors in Galra history. I have broken even more. This isn’t a _game_ or a _hobby_. That type of power and technique comes with a price that is paid in more than just money. You have to eat, sleep, breathe, and sweat a lifestyle your human body — _or whatever you are_ — can’t sustain.”_ _

__Shiro takes a bold step forward. “I can take it. Trust me, I can handle a lot. I have my entire life,” he urges. He feels better without the sword at his throat. “And I don’t want power. I just — I want to learn how to _use_ my strength. I want to help people. I want to find out what I’m supposed to do with all this. I can’t do it alone.”_ _

__Something flickers behind Keith’s dark eyes. Shiro got through; just a crack in the door, but it is there. Maybe he can wedge it open slowly._ _

__“I’m sorry. My answer is the same — “_ _

__Both of them are distracted, so they fail to see the incoming threat._ _

__A smouldering rock streaks from the sky and crashes into the ground between them, sending Shiro and Keith stumbling back in opposite directions. Shiro puts a hand over his heart, steadies his breathing. It’s just one thing after another. They both intuitively know it’s the same boulder Shiro flung into space; same size and shape. But now, every inch of the surface is carved with glowing, unmistakable Altean markings much like the pattern in the crater. It steams from heat even in the humid jungle air and smells like burning sage._ _

__Well, Allura certainly knew how to make a statement._ _

__After a few long moments, Keith’s head peeks around the other side of the boulder, expression unreadable._ _

__“ — we start tomorrow morning.”_ _

__Shiro’s face lights up. “Really?” He dashes around the obstacle between them, wanting to shake Keith’s hand. But the young fighter seems particularly wary of physical touch. Shiro bows instead. Like his father taught him. Keith clearly thinks the gesture is strange, but Shiro doesn’t care. He has a trainer; a good one at that. Shiro is on his way to achieving something monumental._ _

__“Thank you. I’ll do my best,” Shiro says with a smile that is so soft and warm for a man of his size._ _

__Keith looks out of his element. He nods his head in what is supposed to be a returned bow, but it’s so hesitant and awkward it comes off as a twitch. Shiro wonders where Keith is from, originally. “Sure fine,” says his new mentor. He turns and heads for the house. “I don’t have any sort of...extra room, so you’ll have to make due with the floor. I probably have an extra blanket around here or something.”_ _

__Keith opens the front door. It falls again and bangs to the ground. Shiro winces. Keith unhooks his hand from the handle and drops the slab._ _

__“Actually, you can start now. By fixing this,” he says._ _

____

———

In the privacy of his home, Keith gives himself permission to limp and curse at the pain in his leg. He climbs three sets of stairs and winces each time he has to lift his wounded limb. He could never show that kind of weakness and vulnerability to a stranger.

The second and middle level is Keith’s room. It’s small, simple, and undecorated. The furnishings of his home are a mixture of items he brought with him from the coliseum or things he built from the island's resources. And his room is no exception. His bed and the chest at its foot are recognizably Galran, but the stool that he drags to the window is made from raw wood and woven, natural fibers. He fumbles through the chest for a clean cloth and a small container of salve before resting heavily on the stool. It is barely midday and he is already exhausted.

Carefully, he sets to cleaning the slash with water from a nearby pitcher. He has to cut and peel away fabric from the dried blood, but at least the wound seems uninfected. He looks out the window occasionally, watching Shiro pitter about and scratch his head while he fixes the broken door. The young man finds a spade in the garden which he adapts as a type of screwdriver. Resourceful and creative, both good traits in a warrior.

Keith thinks Shiro is extraordinary. He has never met anyone like him, Galra and humans alike. Keith will never admit it, but his strength and persistence alone make him a perfect student. But his smile and easy demeanor — Keith suspects he will have trouble with those. 

If the coliseum did send him, Shiro is very good. If he’s lying about anything, Keith will eventually discover his secrets. And if he is telling the truth, well, Keith knows better than to mess with the gods.

He has done it once before and the result still plagues him.

Keith’s body rests, but his mind races. He has a thought; an idea that takes root and spreads like a virus. He has never been a selfish person but...Keith knows an opportunity when he sees it. And he has no stake in the young man outside. 

He stands and hobbles up the next flight of stairs. The third level is an attic of sorts. Dark and dusty, the little room is full of weapons, food storage for the hurricane season, and things from Keith’s past he doesn’t want to look at — but can’t bear to part with. 

In the corner sits a metal plate on a tree stump pedestal. The smooth, gunmetal gray slab is stamped with the Galran insignia. A minimalist shrine of sorts. Keith regards it for a moment. Outside, he can hear Shiro working. The young human sighs a lot; makes a short, offhand comment about the overbearing heat.

Keith decides something. His face is blank as he searches a small container at the stump’s base. He carefully places a few small animal bones in the hollow cavity near the top edge of the plate. Keith grinds them to a fine powder with a pestle before adding a few drops of thick, black liquid from a vial. He lights a match.

He hesitates, only for a fraction of a tick, and ignites the offering.

“I have someone you might be interested in,” Keith says to the empty room.

The fire burns violet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I continued to outline this story, I realized more chapters were in order. So I've gone up to an anticipated 10 chapters.


	3. I Get The Greenhorn

“ _What_ are you doing?”

Shiro’s heart jumps to his throat. He kneels before a garden bed, hands buried in the foliage of a tall, purple plant. In that particular moment, it symbolizes a cookie jar. Keith looms above and eclipses the soft, early morning light with a stern and disapproving frown pressed into his mouth. 

Admittedly, Shiro finds it hard to be intimidated when Keith’s face is stiff and puffy from sleep. But he’s aching for approval, so he holds back his amusement.

The crouching man pulls back his dirt covered hands; tries to appease his new mentor with a smile. “Good morning,” Shiro says, upbeat and disarming. “I’m pruning the tomatoes.”

In some cases, it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission. From the way Keith crosses his arms and arches one eyebrow, Shiro worries his judgement is poor. Their time together has been short, so Shiro has yet to grasp a full understanding of the young man’s moods. He can, however, ascertain Keith is neither upset nor happy with Shiro’s initiative. 

Keith is also not a morning person and might not know tomatoes require occasional pruning. 

“Do you make a habit of touching other people’s things without asking?” Keith questions.

Shiro deflates. “Oh, I — Uh — Well, my parents owned a farm,” he says and rises to his feet. Shiro is painfully aware of the way Keith’s eyes observe him, like every move demands assessment and evaluation. Shiro wonders what Keith sees, if he can deduce potential with a single glance — if he has already disregarded his new pupil.

Shiro wipes his sweaty brow with the back of his hand, smearing a cover of soil across his forehead and on the high cut of his right cheek. Even early in the morning, the forest air is heavy and oppressive. Shiro’s sleep came in fits and starts by the time the birds woke and began their morning song. But Shiro is young and adaptive; he will get used to the new environment. 

“I used to help them out. So I know a lot about taking care of gardens and crops. I thought, maybe, this is how I could repay you,” Shiro offers. 

Keith stares up at Shiro, or maybe at his forehead — it’s hard to tell.

Shiro is momentarily distracted by the color of Keith’s eyes.

“Because I don’t have any money,” Shiro finally clarifies. Keith pulls a sharp breath through his nose and Shiro senses the oncoming admonition. 

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Shiro says, in an attempt to de-escalate. “I didn’t do anything permanent. Just watered and, uh, got rid of some of the bottom growth here and there so they don’t get mold. And I figured out some natural fertilizer and, well, I guess I did cut off parts...But I put those in water to propagate more plants.” Shiro moves down the garden path between the low beds, pointing out the finished work. 

Without question, the crops are fuller and more colorful than the previous day. Some would call it magic, but Shiro would call it proper care. While Keith is a great and fearsome warrior, he does not have a green thumb. 

Keith’s sharp eyes scan among the rows of healthy, robust greens and the handful of clippings in coconut shell containers near the fenceline. Something neutral replaces his irritation. If he is impressed or pleased, Keith certainly doesn’t show it.

“Fine,” the young warrior says. “But if you kill anything, you won’t be eating my share.”

Shiro aims a small smile at the ground. He suspects it will take a long time to win his new mentor’s favor. However, if there is anything Shiro has in abundance, it is patience. He knows the journey ahead will be filled with obstacles. Gaining Keith’s respect is the first trial.

Keith has already limped across the yard and approaches the house when he calls, “Are you ready or are you just gonna stand there?”

Shiro perks up and abandons his gardening without question. He expects drills. Some mentally exhausting exercise where Keith spends hours screaming at him to do one more push up or one more set of sprints. Maybe Keith will make him do something outlandish like rip trees out by their roots or throw boulders into the ocean. Keith seems like the unconventional sort.

What Shiro does not expect is for Keith to disappear back into the house. Shiro jogs after him, half a dozen coconut shell vases cradled in his arms.

Keith is a minimalist. Shiro is too, but for someone who went to the trouble of creating a long term shelter, Keith occupies the space like he intends to leave the next day. The furnishings are simple and practical: a small round table with a single chair, a counter space for food preparation, a bench near the front door, a wood burning oven made of clay. Nothing in excess; nothing that isn’t used on a daily basis. The only decoration is a studded metal Galran shield, battered and bruised, mounted to the wall near the staircase. It’s a curiosity Shiro wants to know more about, but he has a feeling Keith won’t give him an honest answer.

Keith stands next to the round table, the outline of his form illuminated by the skylight above. The sight of him is divine and regal — inspiring even. It urges Shiro to expect a great lesson to be learned. Though young, Keith holds his shoulders strong and sure; as if he holds years, even decades of experience on them.

“Lesson number one: crack an egg into this pan,” his new mentor says. 

“I’m sorry?”

After the initial shock, dread seeps through Shiro’s expectant, cheerful expression and quickly sours his smile. The eggs in a wooden bowl on the tabletop are a pale pink; the product of some exotic, tropical bird. The pan, sitting harmlessly to the side, mocks him.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Keith challenges. Something glints in his eyes, knowing and self-satisfied.

“No,” Shiro answers all too quickly. He sets the clippings down on a windowsill near the carefully folded blanket he uses as a mattress. Keith’s quiet judgement is obvious and painful as Shiro washes his hands in a basin on the counter. _It’s just an egg_ , Shiro thinks to himself. _You know how to crack an egg._

Still, when Shiro gingerly plucks one from the bunch with clean hands, his sense memory kicks in. He barely cradles it between his fingertips, terrified of crushing it in hand. Keith doesn’t hover, but Shiro feels the pressure all the same. 

He raises his hand and taps the pink shell against the tabletop.

The egg shatters completely; shell, white, and yolk splattered over the surface in an oddly gruesome display. The scene brings back memories of dozens of broken eggs in an old rickety coop and his mother’s voice, “It’s okay, Shiro. Maybe I’ll handle the eggs from here on out.” The first lesson has cut right to one of Shiro’s oldest and most embarrassing insecurities. A grown man, who can’t crack an egg properly.

Shiro’s eyes slowly travel to Keith. He expects his mentor to laugh and tease him, but Keith’s mouth is pressed into the usual thin line.

“You have no control over your strength,” Keith says. It’s an observation, with nothing of the biting ridicule Shiro is used to hearing after he makes a mistake. But Shiro is still well aware he has failed his first test.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, reflexively. He goes for a strip of cloth on the countertop but Keith beats him to it.

“Don’t apologize, just do better,” the young warrior says. He wipes up the mess on the counter and Shiro can do nothing but stand awkwardly by and watch. He soaks in the first piece of wisdom Keith has imparted to him: don’t make excuses. For Shiro, saying ‘I’m sorry’ will be a tough habit to break. But his new mentor is a no nonsense sort and has all the traits of a blunt and somewhat tactless Galran. Shiro has no choice but to _do better_.

“The island has limited food sources,” Keith says and unceremoniously throws the egg soaked cloth back on the counter. “So you have just wasted your egg ration for the day.” 

Shiro thinks it’s a fair punishment. “Yes, sir.”

Keith casts his eyes downwards. He takes an egg from the bowl and cracks it clean into the pan with nimble fingers. The two halves of a shell remain intact. Shiro’s stomach growls when Keith pushes the iron pan into the oven and says, “Now, take a lap.” 

“Yes, sir.” Shiro makes for the door with novice eagerness.

“This isn’t a military academy,” Keith calls, “You don’t have to call me that.”

“Yes, uh —”

“— Just take the lap.”

Shiro likes running. Running requires no strength or force. Nothing to break or ruin, just an activity Shiro’s body knows how to do on instinct. He jogs along the glade’s perimeter, breathing steady, and enjoying the air rushing against his face. He notices a large beaked bird eyeing him from one of the higher branches. It opens its mouth and the halting call is similar to laughter.

Shiro thinks he should start every day like this; even before the sun rises. Shiro takes an extra lap around the perimeter because he wants to. And because Keith might be watching.

However, when he re-enters the house, Keith is seated at the round table halfway through his single egg breakfast. The confusion on his face doesn’t discourage Shiro’s post-exercise endorphins.

“Alright, what’s next?” Shiro pants with a proud grin.

Except for his blinking eyes, Keith sits perfectly still. “I don’t know why you’re standing in front of me right now.”

“I took a lap,” Shiro says, extending his arms over his head to feel the sweet pull in his shoulders. “Felt nice to stretch my legs after sleeping on the floor.”

“I meant around the island.”

Shiro’s smile drops. “What?”

Keith leans back in his chair and reiterates, “Take a lap around the _island_.”

Shiro isn’t sure which embarrassment is worse: smashing an egg on the table like a baby with no motor skills or assuming a lap around the glade perimeter was the morning warm up of the day. 

“Oh. Right. Okay.”

Later, Shiro realizes he should have asked Keith for the quickest route to the shoreline. Though he imagines part of the test itself is finding his own way. 

After wandering for twenty minutes in one direction, Shiro scales a tree to find his bearing. From atop the canopy’s tallest reach, Shiro can see the lay of the land and the vast blue ocean that lies beyond.

The view is breathtaking. Shiro understands why Keith decided to make the tropical island his home. An ocean breeze whips across the top of the trees, rustles his hair, and sprinkles salt onto his tongue. The northernmost point of the island rises into a volcano’s peak. Long extinct, Shiro hopes. The mountain’s dark slopes loom over miles of dense greenery like a guardian more than a threat. It brings Shiro a type of comfort, knowing that the island was created by a worldly, natural phenomenon. He has had enough of magic for the time being.

Shiro could stay perched on that branch forever. But destiny calls. He descends and takes the shortest path to the island’s edge.

White sands and a gentle, flat stretch of beach lures Shiro into a false sense of security. From Keith’s scuffle with the red jaguar, he knows some of the island’s perimeter is cut with cliffs. But he remains optimistic as he runs along the long length of pleasant seashore, kicking through the crystal water and avoiding the scorching hot sand closer to the treeline. As his heartbeat settles into an easy rhythm and his feet push through the wet sand, Shiro lets his mind wander. 

He thinks about Allura and the temple statues. He thinks about Keith. He thinks about his own destiny: what strange, fantastical things wait for him at the end of it all. For the first time in years, Shiro feels like he is moving forward. The finish line is out of sight, but Shiro knows it is there — in the shape of Mount Voltron.

Mangrove trees rise from the horizon where the sand ends. The mangled, swampy roots put up a fight as Shiro wades and navigates the arboraceous waters. Snakes (or something related to them) slither between his legs, wrap around his ankles in a vice grip, and try to drag him under. He bats them away in a panic but learns to stay above the water line as a result, hopping from one large root to another. Shiro feels like he spends hours tangled in the mangrove forest. But what comes after is even less forgiving.

The low, swampland ends where the cliffs and ocean begin. The waves pound against sets of sharp, craggy rocks with a force that could shatter every bone in the human skeleton on impact. With his body fatigued and the blazing sun above squeezing all hydration from his pores, Shiro considers turning back. But he knows what that will look like to Keith. So, against his better judgement, Shiro dives into the water.

It takes all the power in his arms and legs to avoid what Shiro will eventually and affectionately name ‘The Death Rocks’. His back smacks against one just once, and that is enough to send another pulse of adrenaline through his veins and push Shiro through the pain in his shoulders. He swims to the point of exhaustion, until Shiro thinks his body will just seize up and he’ll drown beneath the commanding waves. He swallows mouthfuls of salt water, tries to keep his head above the frothy surf —

In what Shiro imagines can only be a miracle, he wakes on solid land.

The sky above comes through in patches; in holes through a sea cave ceiling that let in beams of light. Shiro thinks he remembers cold, scaled hands against his skin, but the sensation is dreamlike and unreliable. As he regains consciousness, he forgets the thought altogether. 

Shiro lifts himself off the sand and takes in his rocky surroundings. If he weren’t still in fear for his life, Shiro would have found the discovery remarkable and beautiful. Romantic, even. But even more remarkable is a message dotted in the sand: pieces of glittering sea glass formed in the shape of an arrow. The symbol points toward the ominous darkness in the cave’s depths.

Shiro’s internal clock is disoriented, but he knows the tide will come in as the evening draws near. So he has to move. His instinct tells him to gather the pieces of sea glass and take them along. The frosted glass pebbles glow in the palm of his hand with a cool, gentle bioluminescence. Shiro is too tired to debate on whether magic or science is the cause. 

The extensive cavern system twists and turns through narrow pathways and wide open chasms. Shiro tries to recall markers, make up names for peculiar formations in the limestone. But he eventually finds himself lost and backtracks to the cave entrance. The water has risen, closing off the open archways back to the open ocean. Instead of giving in to panic, Shiro rolls the pebbles back and forth in his hand and plans his next course of action. An idea strikes him.

Shiro places the glowing sea glass along his path like a trail of breadcrumbs. He backtracks once, twice, before discovering the right path. It takes him up. The climb is challenging and Shiro is painfully aware of every sore muscle in his body. He considers the silver linings: Shiro is grateful to be protected from the sun’s harsh rays and to find a clear, cave spring to drink from. 

When the red glow from the setting sun peaks through the stone, Shiro lets relief wash over him.

But his stomach drops out when he emerges on a platform, all sides surrounded by steep, severe cliffsides. No path, no discernable means of escape. Just the ocean below, the sky above, and a whole lot of barren rock.

Shiro almost breaks. He collapses onto the ground with a sad, tired sigh. He stares up at the sky; hues of orange, red, and purple splashed across wisps of cirrus clouds. Keith, prickly as he is, doesn’t seem cruel to Shiro. He will eventually come and find him, Shiro thinks. He hopes.

Or maybe he won’t.

Maybe this is what Keith meant.

_You have to eat, sleep, breathe, and sweat a lifestyle your human body — or whatever you are — can’t sustain._

_Whatever you are._

_Whatever._

Anger rises in Shiro’s throat. Keith must be so pleased with himself. He must be so smug to be _right_.

_What am I?_ Delusional, perhaps. A poor choice of student, maybe. Human? Shiro doesn’t know. He frowns at the sky as if it could give him answers. As if Allura would send another comet from the heavens with an attached reply like a carrier pigeon.

Shiro knows one thing implicitly: he is not weak.

Shiro gazes up at the cliff’s edge, looming meters above. An impossibly dangerous distance. A quiet resolve settles behind his eyes. He stumbles to his feet and flexes his sore fingers.

Shiro carves into the cliffside with his bare hands, using his strength in a way he never has before. He cuts with each punch, cleaving holes into the rock to create handholds and footholds. The pain is an unfamiliar kind. Shiro can move mountains and lift entire buildings, but his hands aren’t used to the particular strain. His arms quiver from exhaustion, his palms crack and bleed, and the waves in the depths below clap against the bedrock like thunder. But Shiro never stops. He slips, once, and hangs on for dear life by a single hand. If Keith can pull himself back over the ledge, so can he.

Shiro chokes out a single sob of relief when his body rolls onto flat ground.

He waits for the next trial; for some carnivorous beast to pounce from the forest and tear him to shreds. It never comes.

Like a man possessed, Shiro presses on. The cliff slopes down into a rocky seashore where Shiro mildly twists both his ankles on the descent. The land evens out, turns to sand, and Shiro’s bleary eyes recognize a carved mark he left on a tree as his starting point.

It takes Shiro eight hours to complete the island’s perimeter. He shambles into the open glade just as the sky grows dark.

Keith sits, as if he never moved, in the chair at the round table. The food plated in front of him is different. If he wasn’t so crippled and weary, Shiro could have strangled him. He doesn’t even have the energy to talk back when Keith raises his eyebrows and says, “Your legs feel nice and stretched now?”

———

Keith hoped the island would kill Shiro.

By all reason, it should. The task is impossible; something that Keith himself has never set out to accomplish. In some twisted way, Keith muses that Shiro would appreciate dying for his bizarre, improbable cause. It was that or suffer whatever fate Sendak may have in store for him. 

The first time Shiro comes back, Keith recognizes his error in judgement.

Keith says something snarky and unnecessary — he can’t remember now — to conceal his shock. But when the young man’s knees buckle, Keith is there to catch him. He props his heavy form against a wall, keeps the young man awake enough to gulp and choke on some water. Keith digs into his personal stash of expensive survival rations from the coliseum and forces Shiro to chew one down before laying him on the floor for much needed rest. 

Shiro sleeps a full day and doesn’t remember anything past walking through the front door.

The guilt seeps in and infects Keith’s very core. He has done worse to his Galran ex-pupils, especially those he intended to weed out. Those who enter the coliseum doors know that death is always a possibility. But Shiro, with his relentless will and kind eyes — came to Keith for guidance. He came with hands outstretched, with seemingly nothing to lose but everything to gain. His undeserved pain and suffering worms into Keith like a virus. Keith is desperate to cure himself of it. 

Keith stubbornly sticks to his guns. He makes Shiro crack an egg every morning — a task he repeatedly blunders — and sends Shiro out to the island’s perimeter again when he is able to walk. His young pupil shuffles away without complaint. 

Shiro’s complacency incites a rage Keith hasn’t felt in a long time. It twists and churns in Keith for hours, eats away at him like acid in his empty stomach. How could Shiro be so stupid? How could he blindly walk up to death’s door a second time? Keith waits on pins and needles, paces and busies himself with whatever task he can find. Every sound makes Keith’s eyes snap up to attention.

The second time Shiro comes back, the journey takes him seven hours and thirty-nine minutes.

Every day from that day forward, Shiro drags himself back through the doorway like a soul on the brink of death. Burned from the sun and dizzy from dehydration, Shiro wordlessly collapses into his corner and devours the water and food Keith sets out for him. Sometimes, he musters enough strength to shamble to a nearby stream and bathe.

Keith assesses Shiro’s wounds through observation, unwilling to openly fret over someone he always intended to push away. But Shiro’s body does a miraculous job of healing on its own. Snake bites, dislocated shoulders, cuts and bruises — Shiro bounces back the next day without a scratch on him. The possibility that Shiro is a demigod is no longer so far fetched. 

Keith monitors the impact the daily trek has on his body in real time. The young man arrived in what Keith assumed was the prime of his human life. His strong form is naturally well built, tall with a good bulk that comes from many years of working a homestead. But by the end of the first week, Shiro’s shoulders have broadened. His waist tapers; arms and legs tone with sinewy muscle. Shiro’s body moves with awareness and ease, motions deliberate and steady. A sharper chin and more defined cheekbones make Shiro appear older, more mature.

And with every day, Keith’s admiration for Shiro grows. He can’t stop it. Shiro steals into Keith’s good graces with a natural, infuriating, awe inspiring charm. Keith thinks it would be easier to hate Shiro’s cheekbones if he wasn’t so damned _perfect_. 

By the twenty-second day, Keith has given up worrying and Shiro has more than proven himself. 

But Keith has yet to decide what to do with him. 

The sun blazes at high noon as Keith chops wood against a wide tree stump. Two piles surround him: one of large, uncut logs and another of wood pieces ready for the fire. The rainy season approaches and Keith knows preparation is key. He wonders how Shiro will fare against the island with raindrops the size of grapes hurdling down on him.

Keith hears Shiro before he sees him. If they ever do begin Shiro’s training — something Keith has been fighting against since the moment they met — he will have to instruct Shiro in the art of stealth. Keith sets his long handled axe to the side and looks up at the sky. Five hours and eleven minutes — a record time. 

Shiro stalks up to Keith with three weeks of pent up frustrations under his skin. He stands on the other side of the tree stump, fists clenched.

“Do you _ever_ plan on teaching me anything?” Shiro demands, in a tone Keith has never heard from him.

Keith glances at his young pupil for a moment before placing a large log on the stump. “You want to learn something? Learn to have a little respect for the process. I told you how this was going to go,” he dismisses. Keith raises the axe high above his head and lets gravity do most of the work. The log splits clean in two and a piece flies into Shiro’s left shin. The young man doesn’t flinch.

“I’ve been running this track for three weeks. I’m ready for something different.”

“You’re ready when I say you are,” Keith fires back. Shiro is more than ready.

“When is that going to be? In a month? Two? A year? When I can make it around the island in four hours? I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to check your attitude.”

Beneath his unbothered exterior, Keith is angry. He is angry at himself for treating Shiro so poorly; for buying time while he waited for the shrine in his attic to pass judgement on the young man’s fate. He is angry at Shiro for the grace he has shown up until the current moment; for being so kind and gullible and for bringing Keith’s garden back from certain death.

The taller man clenches his jaw and Keith expects him to walk away. Shiro is not the insubordinate type.

“...You think I’m an idiot,” Shiro says and freezes Keith to the spot. They lock eyes; it’s the standoff Keith has been waiting for. “Or you think I’m crazy. Maybe both. Whatever my motives, I came here to learn from you and it really doesn’t feel like you’re holding up your end of the deal.”

Keith slams the axe blade down into the dense wood platform like a threat. “Then just give up and go home,” Keith snaps.

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “I can tell that’s what you’re aiming for. That, or you’re trying to kill me.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” 

Keith immediately regrets opening his mouth. Shiro looks like he’s been slapped across the face.

Keith doesn’t want Shiro dead. Not anymore.

Their companionship is tense at best. On the best days, they quietly share the common space on the first floor and civilly discuss gardening techniques and the island’s wildlife. Inane remarks about the weather are also common. On the worst of days, they barely utter a word to one another and scarcely make eye contact. Keith thinks those are the days Shiro resents him more than usual. But they never fight, so the electrified air between them is something new.

So is the look in Shiro’s eyes.

“I am _not_ leaving this island,” the taller man vows. While it is true Keith has failed to teach Shiro anything, his personal growth is undeniable. The old Shiro would have ducked his head and crawled away. This Shiro — his fire is inextinguishable. 

“You can make me sleep on the floor and treat me like garbage. You can send me on as many suicidal exercises as you want. Try to break me and wear me down. But I’m here for the long haul. You might as well just accept it. I’m not going _anywhere_.” Despite his words, Shiro turns and heads for the stream behind the house.

One last test, Keith decides. One last test and if Shiro succeeds, he will train him. Sendak be damned.

“So, you do have a backbone,” Keith says, just loud enough for Shiro to hear.

The young human revolves, “What?”

“I was wondering when you would finally stop playing the yes man.”

Shiro’s eyebrows furrow and he takes a few steps toward Keith, expression incredulous. “Is that why you hate me so much? Because I’m doing everything you ask of me? Like I’m supposed to do?”

Keith rolls his eyes. Humans could be so dramatic. “I don’t hate you.”

“Well, you certainly don’t like me,” Shiro says, arms gestured wide.

“You’re right.” It’s a lie. But he’s saying it to prove a point; to give Shiro that push over the edge. Keith approaches Shiro with deliberate and threatening steps, like a panther stalking its prey. 

“You want to know why? Because I haven’t seen a shred of original thought from you. You might _look_ the part, you may have the strength for it, and hell, you might be a _god_. But you’re about as _vapid_ as they come. Just because you’ve got some insane notion in your head that you’re special doesn’t mean you are.”

Keith stops, nose to nose with Shiro. Despite his behemoth size, Shiro never uses his stature to intimidate. Even now, as he stands his ground and looks Keith dead in the eye, Shiro’s body language is open. Keith is the real threat.

“I don’t know why Allura sent me to you. You’re a patronizing _jackass_ ,” Shiro snaps. Even his insults sound soft.

A silence stretches between them. Keith waits. Shiro doesn’t move a muscle.

“Are you going to apologize for that?” Keith asks.

With a conviction Keith has never heard from him before, Shiro says, “ _No_.”

Keith sees Shiro for the first time. Past the handsome face and the inhuman strength. Through his armor of insecurities and the great wall of indecision. Right into his golden, honorable heart. Shiro has more potential than any student Keith has ever known, Galran and human alike. He could be Keith’s greatest masterpiece. And Keith could be Shiro’s salvation.

“...Good,” Keith nods. And with it, he concedes defeat. 

A grin pulls at the corners of his mouth and the sensation is foreign. Keith’s sudden good humor breaks Shiro’s resolve and confusion takes the place of confidence. Keith turns on his heel and returns to the stump where he pries the axe from a crack in the heartwood. When he looks up, Shiro stands frozen to the spot. 

Keith raises his eyebrows. “Are you gonna wash up or are you gonna learn your next lesson smelling like cave fungus and swamp rot?”

The smile that illuminates Shiro’s eyes makes Keith’s heart skip two beats. Swamp rot and all.

———

Finally.

Shiro lets the worries and frustrations of three weeks wash away with the babbling brook. He wipes the tension from his shoulders and brow; rings out the grime from the cloth and starts on his arms. 

Finally.

Shiro knows he will never demystify the workings of Keith’s mind. It’s a good thing; it means the warrior has a lot to teach him and Shiro has yet much to understand. Still, three weeks is a long time to string Shiro along.

His daily routine has done something. Shiro can feel it in the way he moves, down to his bones, and in the recesses of his thoughts. He is stronger before in a way that has nothing to do with physical power. The bruises on Shiro’s skin heal faster, he approaches new obstacles without hesitation, and, if anything, he is a much better swimmer than before. Shiro feels good — proud to prove Keith wrong. Proud to stand face to face with Keith, steady against sharp eyes, and demand the recognition he deserves. Apparently, that’s what Keith wanted as well.

When Shiro returns to the glade, his mentor is waiting at the far end of the perimeter and looks...almost happy to see him. Refreshed and confident, Shiro jogs across the yard. He is too excited to walk. He has been waiting for this for weeks.

“Ready?” Keith asks.

Shiro nods, “Yeah.”

Keith places a rock the size of a cherry into his hand, points to a tree in the distance, and says, “Lesson number two: hit that tree over there with this rock.”

Shiro regrets getting his hopes up.

His disappointment must show outward because Keith crosses his arms and challenges, “You got something to say?”

“No,” Shiro answers. He internally chides himself for being naive enough to think something had changed in their dynamic. 

Halfway across the yard stands a rainforest tree that dwarfs others in comparison. Its roots run twisted over the ground, branches spread out wide to create a canopy which a large flock of colorful parrots call home. It’s one of the most majestic along the glade’s perimeter. Shiro thinks it’s a shame that Keith has carved a three ring bullseye into its trunk. It’s a far distance but, with Shiro’s strength, hitting it won’t be hard. 

Keith draws a line in the dirt near Shiro’s toes. “Go ahead.”

Shiro flips the stone in his palm a few times before drawing back his arm and giving it his best shot. With the force of a cannon, the stone hurdles through the thick, late afternoon air and sinks deep into the tree. It hits the edge of the bullseye. Shiro turns to Keith for approval.

Keith sighs. “Your aim isn’t bad. But I want you to _hit_ the tree.”

“I did.”

“ _Hit_ the tree. Not lodge it in the bark,” his mentor clarifies and offers another rock.

The absurdity of the lesson makes Shiro scream internally. He feels ridiculous. He feels like a child. He throws rocks at a tree like a child. Shiro gets one of two results: a rock buried into the tree or a rock that falls short. Too much force or too little. Over and over. It is the definition of insanity. One, two, three, four, five, six; Shiro loses count. He throws rocks until the bark is littered with them and the ground near his feet is barren of anything resembling a pebble. His aim gets better, but his arm grows tired. And his mind grows weary of the task.

When his frustrations reach their peak, Shiro pitches a stone with a force that knocks him off balance. The projectile rips a hole straight through the five feet of trunk and disappears into the thicket on the other side.

“Your strength is going to take you far.” Keith’s voice interrupts the sound of Shiro’s panting. He rests on a stump a few paces away, the perfect picture of disappointment. “But that’s all it is. Raw, unmanaged strength. You’re scared of what you’ve done with it. You’re holding yourself back.”

He might strangle Keith. Shiro won’t hold back when he does and maybe his mentor will finally be impressed. Maybe he can finally win whatever mad game Keith seems to be playing.

Shiro tears at his two tone hair. “That’s what you want me to do! Hold back my strength so I don’t —” 

Keith stands as if hit by lightning, a new intensity behind his eyes. “ _No._ Don’t hold back. Never hold back. You’re missing the point,” he says. “I want you to _control_ your strength. Right now, it controls _you._ ”

The revelation sends Shiro reeling.

For all of Shiro’s short life, his strength defined him. He believed his extraordinary trait was the only thing that set him apart from everyone else; the single governing factor in all of his misery and social isolation. Shiro thought it was the _only_ thing he had control over. Somewhat. Because everything around him is such a mess. But Keith’s arrow hits the bullseye and levels Shiro’s irritation in one fell swoop. He fizzles, shrinking in on himself.

In a gesture more intimate than all their interactions combined, Keith places a palm against Shiro’s solid bicep. His slender fingers are cool to the touch. The touch sends a jolt through Shiro, making him hold his breath. “It’s not _this_ that’s gonna win battles,” Keith urges. 

“It’s _this_.” Keith jabs Shiro’s hard chest with his other hand, right above his fast beating heart. “And _that_.” He pokes the point between Shiro’s eyebrows.

“Anyone who tells you otherwise is an idiot.” A buzz settles beneath Shiro’s skin where Keith’s hand is pressed. “You are working against yourself. When your mind tells your body to do something, it needs to _listen_.”

When Shiro looks back, he can pinpoint this moment as a juncture. Because Keith is suddenly everything Shiro hopes he would be. Strong and experienced; with a defiant edge to the cut of his jaw and a firm hand. Everything Shiro wishes he could be one day.

And just as Keith demands, Shiro listens.

The young fighter lets his hand fall away. “Some believe strength is at the core of a hero. Others think it’s agility. And then there are the simple few who believe defense is the key,” Keith explains. He holds up a knowing finger, “Don’t misunderstand, all three are essential to any good warrior. But from years of watching people enter the ring, I know that all great heroes have two traits in common: a strong heart and good technique.” 

Shiro only half understands what that means. 

Keith steps out of Shiro’s immediate space, eyes searching the ground. “The mightiest are blind to their weaknesses, the quick can be outwitted, and armor can always be shattered with persistence,” he reasons, just as he finds what he looks for. He collects a small rock and thoughtfully turns it over in his hands. “But those who know their muscles inside and out, who are able to assess a situation and create a plan of attack under stress, and who have the will and nerve to see that plan to the end — they are the ones who leave the coliseum intact.”

Dark eyes fix on Shiro and he feels like tree roots reach up, twist around his feet, and anchor him to the spot.

“I sent you around the island to see if you had what it takes,” his mentor admits. “I was going to turn you away if you broke under strain. I expected you to.”

The confession does not come as a surprise. But what does surprise Shiro is the hint of regret in the faint lines on Keith’s young face.

“Shiro,” It’s the first time Keith has said his name. It feels like an act of acceptance; like a blessing. “You have outperformed any human I have ever seen. Many Galra, for that matter. And I am... sorry that I doubted you. You have passed that test with flying colors.”

An unfamiliar, warm joy fills Shiro’s chest as he swells with pride. He knows hugging Keith would be completely inappropriate so he cements his arms to his sides and doesn’t fight the invisible roots around his ankles. But he can’t stop the big grin that spreads across his face. 

Keith falters and it’s hard to tell if the flush on his cheeks is from the heat or embarrassment. He dismisses his momentary softness with a wave of his hand and revives his no-nonsense attitude, “But I also make you crack an egg every morning for a reason. And you fail that test every single time. You need to develop better technique.”

Nothing in the world could dampen his spirits in that moment, failure or not. Shiro finally understands what Keith wants from him.

“You have the makings of a hero. But you need to trust yourself,” Keith concludes and places the stone in Shiro’s hand.

The rock feels heavier, weighed down with a sense of meaning the others did not possess. It’s warm to the touch from Keith’s hand, has a rough patch on one side, and a piece of moss attached on the other. It is nothing special, but Shiro cradles the stone with a sensitive reverie.

Shiro estimates the weight, the hot stillness of the air, and the distance from the line at his feet and the bullseye halfway across the glade. He tenses his arm, perceives how the strands of muscle shift under his skin. Shiro sets his arm back, breathes, and throws.

The stone taps the tree with an anti-climatic _CLACK!_ Before tumbling to the ground and coming to rest at the base.

Sheer, unbridled elation and satisfaction seeps through Shiro’s pores. It is a silly amount of happiness for a task so simple. But Shiro can’t remember the last time he relied on anything but luck to keep his strength in check. He looks to his mentor, eyes bright and boyish. 

Keith is grinning when he says, “Again.”

Shiro replicates his victory one, two, three, four times before Keith calls for the end of the lesson. The praise Shiro receives is quiet, but Shiro hardly cares. He will ride the high of his success as far as it takes him.

Keith is louder when he announces that it is too hot for an oven made dinner and that they will cook outside over a fire. Shiro realizes the evening plans are a reward when Keith begins to prepare more food than usual. His mentor even reaches into the preservation vats for a generous cut of salted meat. 

Shiro takes the initiative to build a fire pit. He gets distracted once or twice with throwing rocks at trees of varying distances or bending twigs to the point of strain without permanent damage. It’s simple and stupid, Shiro knows, but it means something monumental. It means he has a better handle on his life. It means disaster can be avoided. No more fallen agoras, no more ruined buildings, or broken sacred statues. Keith probably doesn’t realize, but he has helped lift a nineteen year old weight from Shiro’s shoulders.

They share dinner at fireside just as the first stars appear in the sky. Shiro feels full and satisfied for the first time in weeks as he mindlessly pokes at glowing embers and a growing pile of ash. Keith appears content too. The firelight and shadows dance across his features and Shiro is hypnotized by the flames mirrored in Keith’s eyes. Like some nocturnal animal, Keith’s irises flash yellow when he looks up and catches Shiro staring. A trick of the fire and nighttime, Shiro thinks.

“How’s your leg?” Shiro asks.

Keith nods, casual. “Scarred, but healed. It’s nothing compared to all the cuts you come back with.”

“I haven’t had a run in with a jaguar just yet,” Shiro counters.

Keith makes a noncommittal sound and clasps his hands together, elbows resting on his knees. “Well, we just ate the last one so I hope not.”

Shiro sputters, clears his throat, and averts his gaze to the bonfire. His stomach suddenly feels very, very heavy. The island is a dangerous place with, as Keith repeatedly reminds him, limited resources and a fragile ecosystem. As a result, they mostly eat fish, crops, and foraged foods. But Shiro knows they have to seize any opportunity for protein. Still.

Shiro looks up and Keith’s lips are trying to suppress a grin. “Was that...a joke?” he asks.

“It was wild boar,” Keith quietly admits.

Relief washes over him. “Oh, thank the gods.” Shiro doesn’t like the idea of eating something so majestic and rare. He decides to just assume the beast had a quick and painless death and rests peacefully at sea.

After recovering, Shiro feels quietly pleased. So, they’re joking now. And Keith has a twisted sense of humor. Across the top of the flames, Keith smiles at Shiro and Shiro doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Are you really some kind of lost god?” Keith asks. The question feels sudden, if not a long time overdue. 

Shiro reorients his frame of mind and sighs heavily. He resumes poking at the glowing cinders with a stick. “To be honest, I don’t know,” he admits. “I went to the Temple of the Gods and...well, it kind of feels like a dream now. Maybe I dreamt it all up and I am actually crazy.”

“Dreamt up what?”

“The statue of Allura coming to life and telling me I was kidnapped as a baby.”

Keith blinks a few times, long eyelashes casting moving shadows across his brow. “...You have to know that sounds insane, right?”

Shiro shrugs, “Yeah, I know. But you believe me.”

“Jury’s still out on that one,” Keith remarks. A second joke. This one pulls a pleasant chuckle from Shiro’s chest. Keith almost laughs with him. Shiro silently wishes their relationship had been so congenial from the start.

“A lost demigod with superstrength. Kidnapped at birth. On a journey to regain his honor. It really is a fantastic tale,” Shiro’s mentor muses, no hint of malice or mocking in his tone.

“Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction,” Shiro notes.

“And I’m the one Allura sent you to?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Keith is genuinely perplexed.

_His destiny is intertwined with yours._

Shiro shrugs, “I don’t know.” He doesn’t want to scare Keith away, not when they’ve just made it to the next stage.

Keith stares at Shiro. He doesn’t like the answer, but he shrugs and lets the matter lay. Instead, he inanely asks, “You used to be a farmer? Seems like a waste of your skillset.”

“My parents were farmers before they found me. And when they took me in and realized that I was...different, they went to great lengths to make sure I had a normal life.”

“And a normal life isn’t what you wanted?”

It’s a big question. One that no one has ever bothered to ask. His parents assumed normal was what he wanted and everyone else thought he aimed to be something extraordinary. Shiro shrugs, “Normal, different, special — that’s not really what it’s about. I just want to find a place where I belong. Where people don’t think I’m some sort of freak.”

The answer is too honest. Keith snaps his mouth shut. He crosses his arms and retreats into himself again like a tortoise in a shell. Shiro should have kept things light. The fire crackles between them in the pause that follows.

In an attempt to regain the connection, Shiro asks, “Why did you leave the coliseum?” By the way Keith flinches, Shiro realizes it's the wrong subject to bring up.

Keith only sinks deeper. “It’s a long story.”

“Too crazy to be true?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Keith says. He hesitates, holding back his next thought by chewing on the inside of his lip. Then he adds, “I made someone powerful very mad. They kicked me out. I didn’t belong anymore. That’s the short of it.”

Shiro nods, slowly. He has learned more about Keith in a single minute than he has in three weeks. He presses on, hopeful. “Would you go back if you could?”

But that’s the end of it. Keith stands and smooths out the wrinkles in his tunic.

“...I’m gonna head to bed. Douse the fire when you’re done, yeah?”

Shiro watches Keith stalk away and disappear into the house. Unlike the many times Shiro has irritated Keith’s sensitive temperament, Shiro gets the distinct feeling that talking about the past made Keith sad. Shiro tosses aside the stick and wrings out the guilt in his hands. He’ll make it up to Keith somehow.

———

Keith’s room stinks like burning tar. It’s overbearing and sickly familiar.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins and Keith twists on his heel. 

A colossal figure fills the darkest corner like a shadow and two mismatched, glowing eyes peer at Keith through the black. A nightmare come to life. The shape defines, morphs, and coils as the specter slithers closer. Thick wisps of smoke creep across the floorboards and Keith staggers backward, terrified of their touch. The shadow slowly creates a figure. Broad shoulders plated with armor. Large, triangular cat-like ears. Fanged teeth with the sharpness of knives.

Sendak approaches in strong, purposeful strides and his very presence siphons the energy from Keith’s limbs. He fights the instinct to reach for the blade at the small of his back. 

“Don’t look so frightened,” the god of death chides, “I’m not here to do anything. You seem well, Yorak. All things considered.”

Keith swallows thickly. Guiltily. He glances out the window where Shiro still sits in front of the fire, unaware of the visiting omen. “You don’t want him?” Keith asks, voice steady and skipping past the fake pleasantries. 

Sendak smirks. “Oh, of course I want him. There was a reason why I took him from Mount Voltron all those years ago.” 

Keith retains his poker face. But now he knows, for certain, that Shiro is who he says he is.

The Galran god crosses the threshold, trailing singed footprints in his wake. He stops at the open window, peering down on Shiro from above with harsh, hungry eyes. “Although, I never expected him to appear on your doorstep. I believed him to be dead. He’s harder to kill than I thought. Though, you already knew that.” Sendak’s eyes turn on him and Keith looks at the ground. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve grown attached?” an amused tone skirts Sendak’s words.

“No,” Keith answers.

Sendak’s yellow eyes watch Keith for a long moment, determining the reliability of Keith’s quick response. The god cocks his head to the side. “Yes, you’ve always been the pragmatic kind,” he says. Keith’s lie has either gone unnoticed or Sendak has decided to humor him. When Sendak looks back out the window, Keith flexes the tension from his hands.

“I’ve considered killing him; finishing the job that I failed to do all those years ago,” Sendak admits. Keith fights even harder to keep his hands away from his sword. He considers his options. _Their_ options. If Keith can hold Sendak at bay, maybe Shiro can make it to the sea caves and hide. 

“As infuriating as his mere existence is, I have decided he will be more useful to me later.” 

Keith’s head snaps up and Sendak looks directly at him. The yellow, bionic eye whirrs behind its glass lens. Keith knows the Galran god can’t read thoughts, but he smirks as if he knows. As if Keith’s escape plans were plainly written on his face.

“You will continue with his training. Make him into the finest warrior anyone has ever seen. When I ask, you will hand him over to me. Understood?” Keith doesn’t understand, but he has time to figure it out. He has time to make a better plan.

“And what do I get in return?” he dares to inquire.

Sendak disappears from the window like the extinguished flame of a candle. He doesn’t re-materialize, not completely. But Keith can feel the press of a large hand on his neck, forcing him to tilt his face up and expose a very vulnerable part of himself. He doesn’t resist, even when two clawed fingers dig into the flesh of his cheek and draw blood.

The smoke whispers, “ _Liberty_.”

———

In the morning, two shelless, sunny side up eggs and Shiro’s smile wait for Keith at the table. He has no appetite, but he eats anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a wait for this chapter, but I hope it was worth it!


End file.
